Do I Know You From Somewhere
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."
1. Chapter 1

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

Prologue

Teresa Lisbon holds the gun in her hand and tries to focus on the four men in front of her. She knows that there are only really two, but her vision keeps doubling. She swallows, her mouth cottony.

"Shoot," Jane says. "It's okay." His voice is hoarse and raspy, but not afraid.

Her hand is quavering. If she shoots she will probably kill Jane. She will also kill Red John. Probably.

The serial killer holds Jane in front of him, a wicked looking knife pressed to the consultant's throat just above his carotid artery. Jane is listing a little to the side, his left leg shaking as it tries to hold him up. Blood blossoms on his left thigh, evidence of where he was shot in the skirmish. It's not near his femoral artery, though, she thinks, so that's a good sign.

"Shoot him, Teresa," Jane urges.

Her vision swims and she blinks hard.

"If you shoot me," Red John says "my body will spasm reflexively, and I will cut his throat." His voice is so even and smooth. It's almost hypnotic.

Her gun hand wavers.

"Boss." Cho is standing beside her. His body is tense, his gun drawn. He is a wraith in black tactical gear. He can't take the shot without killing Jane. He's afraid she might.

Behind her she can hear Grace keening. She knows the other woman is on her knees, leaning over Wayne's body. Before Teresa had found the strength to stand up, Grace was already in action, pulling off her shirt and stuffing it into the giant wound in Rigsby's gut.

Red John only had them for a couple of hours. She and Rigsby had been separated from the team, taken. He had brought them to this dark little basement where he could take his time. He'd started with Wayne.

"Shoot him, Teresa." Jane is so calm.

So is Red John. His eyes track her every move, watching with fascination. He wants to see what she'll do, she realizes. He wants to see how badly he has damaged her.

He slid the needle into her arm so carefully. She doesn't know what the syringe was filled with. Her senses are made hyper-acute, everything too bright, too loud, too much. But her body is numb, beyond her control.

She had been paralyzed, watching from the dusty concrete floor as Red John tortured Wayne. He had painted her with Wayne's blood. Red fingernails, red toenails. His index finger was searing hot as he swiped the blood over her lips.

Every time Rigsby screamed it was deafening. The smell of his blood was overpowering.

Even now she can smell all the blood, coppery hot, wafting over the stink of death. Lorelei must have vacated her bowels when Cho shot her. Her body is crumpled up on the floor, her face a mass of ugly red pulp.

Teresa doesn't know how she can be standing. Her muscles didn't work before. Her whole body feels far away.

From the light in Red John's eyes, he doesn't know how she can be standing either.

Her nose is running. She uses her free hand to wipe it. The gun wavers.

Jane's voice breaks through the fog of confusion and horror. "Teresa, I need you to focus now. I need you to focus on my voice."

Her eyes track slowly to his face. He doesn't look scared, but desperate.

"Listen to him, Teresa," Red John says, his voice all venom-soaked velvet.

She looks at him. Her legs shake.

"Lisbon!" Her eyes snap back to Jane. "Lisbon," he says, a little fiercely now. "Don't listen to him. Just listen to me. Listen to my voice."

She can feel her arms getting heavy.

"I need you to shoot him, Lisbon," Jane says. "I need you to kill him for me."

She can feel Cho tense next to her. Jane knows he won't take the shot.

She tries to say something, but it comes out as a moan.

"Pull the trigger, Teresa," Jane says. "It's okay. It's okay. He can't be allowed to get away. Not again."

He is so at peace with the idea of dying. She knows he doesn't believe in an afterlife. He isn't taking comfort in the thought of being with his wife and daughter. He is unafraid even though he knows that if she pulls the trigger he will simply cease to be. Everything will be gone.

"She can't do it, Patrick," Red John says. "She loves you too much. Can't you see how you've ruined her too?"

She inhales.

"Teresa," Jane says. "It's okay. I love you."

"Such a poisonous love you have Mr. Jane," Red John says.

Jane looks at her calmly. "It's okay. It's time."

She feels her hands steady, her vision clear. She feels someone else, holding her shaking hand, guiding her sight. She has never met this woman, never heard her laugh or smelled her scent, but she knows her instantly. It could be another hallucination, but she knows it isn't.

She breathes. Squeezes the trigger.

The shot hits Stiles in the center of his forehead. His third eye opens in a violent red explosion. Blood splatters Jane's face. He doesn't look surprised. She sees Stile's hand twitch, but she can't tell if he's cut Jane's throat.

Whatever strength was holding her up vanishes. Her vision goes dark around the edges. She collapses.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

I.

They detox her slowly because they aren't sure what Stiles shot into her vein.

Teresa lies in a pool of her own sweat for hours, shaking uncontrollably. The vomiting starts next, her entire body cramping with the violence of it. She looks straight up, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The medical staff hover just outsider her view like ghosts, their words distorted and meaningless.

Sometimes she opens her mouth to speak, but she only manages to scream.

When the worst is already over they give her something to make her sleep. She struggles to swim up from exhaustion and a heavy pharmaceutical slumber, struggles to ask, "Did anyone else make it?"

She wakes up with a bad taste in her mouth and a headache from hell. All things considered, it could be worse. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, and the moment her feet touch the cold floor a shock goes straight to her bladder. She tugs the IV pole after her as she makes her way unsteadily to the toilet. She knows she should press the call button, but she doesn't want a nurse. A nurse might tell her that Jane and Rigsby are dead.

Business done, she shuffles back to bed. She's struggling with the IV tubing when the door whispers open, and Cho appears, clutching a vase of purple flowers. Teresa wonders if he bought them for the sake of convention or for sentiment. He sets them on her table.

"You shouldn't be up," he observes.

She licks her lips. They're dry. "How bad is it?" she asks.

Her stomach churns as she anticipates the answer.

"They're both alive." Cho doesn't believe in beating around the bush, thank God. "Although Rigsby spent eight hours in surgery. He's in the ICU. It's dicey."

She nods and sinks back onto the bed, her legs suddenly too weary to hold her up. Cho helps her into bed, pulls the blankets over her bare legs. It's not something he would have done before, but yesterday blurred the lines for all of them.

"How are you?" she asks sleepily.

"Fine."

Of course.

He waits a beat then speaks again. "The TV people are everywhere."

Teresa's lips curl in disgust. Of course the media would be all over this. She's dreading the inevitable pressure from CBI to do an interview. She doesn't want to talk about that basement. She doesn't even want to think about it. She wants to set the memory on fire and burn it to ash in her mind, then get up and start fresh.

She lets out a shaky breath. "Is he really dead?"

Cho doesn't blink. "Yeah. He's dead."

XXX

When she wakes again she's feeling stronger, physically anyway. The doctors make appearances, mutter encouraging words while discussing her health. The nurses tend to her, and she lets them, enjoying the feeling of being looked after again. They make her feel safe for just a moment, like she still has a mother.

She eats something, eggs. She understands now why Jane loves eggs so much. They are soft, easy to prepare and chew, contain necessary protein. They give her strength without requiring much effort. She doesn't taste anything, anyway.

When she finally feels fortified she slips from the bed and unhooks her IV. They've been flushing her system with fluids as a precautionary measure. Alarms go off. She ignores them and makes her way to the door. A nurse stops her in the hall, but Teresa gives her a "don't fuck with the state agent" look, and demands Jane's room number.

They probably aren't allowed to give it to her, but given the circumstances they do.

She makes her way down the hall, half-heartedly holding her gown closed behind her. The place has the ammonia smell of urine combined with the sharp scent of industrial cleanser. It takes a while to make it to his room. She pushes the door open and is greeted by the soft beeps of monitors. The room is dark and quiet. Jane is sound asleep in his bed.

His neck is wrapped in gauze. Cho told her the wound was serious, but not life threatening. They gave him blood, fluids, painkillers. They sutured him up.

She pulls a chair next to his bed and sits. He is deeply asleep, and she wonders if she's ever seen him sleep like this. His face is relaxed, passive. He doesn't seem content or at peace, just…off. She wonders if it's medication induced or the relief of having Red John dead that's keeping him under.

She touches his hand, and he doesn't stir. She leans forward and rests her head on his chest. He doesn't smell right; he smells like antiseptic and faintly of blood. A vision of Wayne flayed open on the concrete flashes before her eyes, but she forces it back.

She listens to his breathing, steady and slow, and lets it lure her to sleep too.

She wakes up, her back complaining at the awkward position. Jane's fingers are feathered through her hair, brushing gently against her skin.

She sits up, rubbing her face reflexively, studying him.

Jane looks good for a guy who nearly had his throat slit. Maybe tired, but not pale and near death. He touches the bandage carefully.

"Hurts to talk," he mumbles.

"That's going to be hell for you," she says, smirking.

He reaches out and takes her hand. "Thank you," he whispers.

"Jane, I was so high, I'm not even sure I remember what happened." That's not true. She remembers everything. She remembers the feeling of someone else standing in her space when she fired that shot.

"You would have ended it," he whispers. "Thank you. No one else would."

Tears spring to her eyes. "Jesus, Jane."

He just looks at her, his eyes not sad but serene. He is happy to be alive, she thinks, but he would have accepted death too. His pound of flesh.

Without warning she breaks into convulsive sobs. Everything floods into her at once, Rigsby gutted in front of her, his animal sounds of pain. The rage at being unable to help him. The terror that she would be next, that Red John would take his time with her. The grief at knowing Jane would suffer this guilt too. The fear of nearly losing him to her own bullet. The knowledge that Rigsby might still die.

She cries and cries, and he draws her face to his chest. She soaks his hospital gown with tears while he gently strokes her back.

When she is finally in control of herself she sits up, sniffling pathetically and reaching for the tissue on his bedside table. She looks at Jane. His eyes are wet too. She can't imagine how painful crying would be for him with his wound.

He licks his lips. "I thought it would feel different," he whispers.

"His death can't bring them back," she says, wondering at his meaning.

He closes his eyes. "I feel…untethered."

She isn't sure what he means. They sit there and hold hands until the nurses finally make her go back to her own bed. They give her another shot of something, and as she slips away she sees the resignation in Jane's eyes, and she is scared.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece. **This chapter is a bit short, sorry.**

II.

The next time she wakes up she finds her clothes folded on the chair next to her bed. She's guessing Grace left them, although it's always possible Cho did. She puts on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt and makes her way to the ICU.

Grace and Sarah are both holding vigil in the waiting room outside the ICU. Grace is slumped forward, her head resting in her hands. Sarah is curled into a chair, her knees pulled to her chest. She twists a loose thread on her sweater between her fingers, repeating the motions the way Teresa might with a rosary.

She sits with them, and they wait, and they pray.

XXX

Teresa is discharged before anyone else. She doesn't say goodbye to Jane or to Rigsby, who is still recovering. She takes a taxi home, lets herself into her apartment, and sits on her couch, staring at nothing.

Days pass. She sleeps in fits, eats only when she has to, and refuses to answer to the phone. She takes the tranquilizers she's been prescribed and fights the urge to chase them with booze. She keeps her apartment silent. She can barely stand the sound of the traffic outside. She showers twice a day, but her skin still smells of blood and hospital.

She knows that she has to go back sometime. There will be mandatory counseling to attend. She will have to go through all the officer-involved shooting procedures as well. She knows it will take time before she's allowed back into her old job. She doesn't want the bother, so she stays on her couch and pulls the blankets up to her ears.

She doesn't check her messages. If Jane calls, she doesn't know.

_Teresa, it's okay. I love you._

Why do his admissions of love always come at the end of a bullet? Unless he said that simply to calm her, to reassure her that shooting him would be the right choice. Even facing his own death, she wouldn't put it past him to manipulate her.

She's not even sure if she cares. She is too tired of caring for damaged men. She is tired of settling for less than what everyone else has. Any unrequited feelings she has for Patrick Jane slip away as the shadows move across her walls, marking time.

Sometimes she dreams. When she does the world around her seems to move erratically, a beat too fast, and everything is tinged red.

XXX

Jane stays as the hospital, manipulating the doctors to keep him, until Rigsby is out of danger. It will be a long time before the agent is well, but now that the death watch is over, Jane feels that he can leave.

His complaints of pain, nausea and dizziness all magically vanish, and he checks himself out AMA. His suit, the one with the bloody hole in the leg, and the shirt soaked in gore, was disposed of when he first arrived. His shoes were salvageable. They give him sweatpants and an old tee-shirt that says Cluck-U Chicken on it in purple and yellow. He hopes the clothes are donated and not cast-offs because he'd pity the person who once stooped to wear them.

He calls Lisbon. "I've escaped from the hospital. Call me".

He takes a cab to his car at the CBI then drives straight through the night to Malibu. He looks at his little cot under the smiling face that is now more brown than red, and he decides he can't sleep in this room any more. He is no longer an acolyte to madness and obsession, and his sleeping here was never really penance for their deaths anyway. It was a slavish devotion to guilt.

Jane walks down to the beach and stands barefoot, wiggling his toes in the sand. The air is cool and salty. He has that untethered feeling again, a sense of unreality similar to what he felt when Angela and Charlotte died. Then he wondered how the sky could be so blue, the world so normal when they were gone. He wondered how it was that everyone else could move along with their lives, blind to the fact that the world had changed. Everything should have been fractured and ugly, but it wasn't. It scared him that it wasn't.

Now he wonders how the sand can feel exactly the same, the ocean smell the same, when Red John is dead and his quest is over. When that bullet took Red John's life, it should have taken his as well, or at least changed it irrevocably.

Some of the fear is gone, the mania, but he more or less feels the same. It is galling to learn that a decade-long obsession realized hasn't changed anything essential about him.

He stares at the water, black and endless. He is free to wade out into the ocean and finish what he started ten years ago or he is free to leave. He always was; he just didn't know it then.

The water is icy cold when he steps in it. He lets it run over his feet like a caress. When it's too cold to stand anymore he walks up the beach to his car.

He finds a hotel, and the clerk looks askance at his wardrobe. Jane asks the concierge to find him a shirt and slacks, gives him his sizes. He calls Lisbon and leaves a second message, "It's Jane. Call me. Please."

Then he crawls into the hotel bed and sleeps dreamlessly for fourteen hours.

When he wakes up the red light on his phone is blinking. It's a text from Grace, updating him on Rigsby.

_Doing better—he's well enough to be crabby now. _

Jane smiles. There is nothing from Lisbon. He calls her, doesn't leave a message. He texts: _I'm sorry_.

He orders room service and eats ravenously, then puts on his newly delivered clothes (not quite the right fit, but good enough) and goes to see a realtor.

It takes hours, and during that time he starts to feel a little dizzy and sick. He swallows some tea, breathes deep, and texts Lisbon. _Please call me_.

The realtor who agrees to sell his home, his "deluxe-beach-front-estate," the man gushes, also rents him a place in Sacramento sight-unseen. He assures Jane it's a gem.

Jane leaves the realty office feeling exhausted and shaken. The house anchored him here, and he knows he has to let it go. His wife and daughter aren't there. The life he shared with them isn't there. The only thing that building is a monument to is his need for self-destruction.

He checks his phone again, needing her assurance that what he's done is right. He wants to hear her sympathetic voice telling him that it's going to be okay. Lisbon hasn't responded.

He calls her again, knowing his voice sounds off. "Lisbon, I don't know if you're mad or…Can you call me? This is important." He pauses. "Van Pelt said Rigsby is doing better. I don't know if you're ignoring all your calls or just the ones from me. Call me. Please."

He hangs up and drives to Sacramento. He lets himself into his newly furnished apartment and lies down on the couch. He waits for the phone to ring.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

III.

Teresa complies with the mandatory psychiatric evaluation. She is interviewed countless times about the events of that day, by shrinks, by cops, by attorneys. She can repeat every event in sequence without thinking about the words.

"And then Red John cut Agent Rigsby's abdomen with the knife."

_Wayne is screaming in pain. The smell is incredible. It's like the blood is washing over her face, hot and choking, but he's across the room. She can see muscle and the glisten of organs. Rigsby is unconscious now, chalky white with shock._

_She tries to crawl toward him, to scream, to shut her eyes. She can't do any of it. She is completely out of control. _

"_He wants you to save him, Agent Lisbon." Red John's voice is lilting. "You aren't strong enough are you?"_

_She can't even cry._

"Then I fired the shot. I saw Stiles go down. At that point I passed out."

_I took the shot I thought would kill Jane. I did it because he wanted me to, and no one else would. I nearly killed the man I loved in a drug-induced haze. I still don't know if I did it because I was high and my judgment impaired or if I wanted the madness to end then too._

They give her some prescriptions for anti-anxiety pill and then hand her back her gun and badge. It's time to move on.

XXX

When she walks into the bullpen the next morning she is greeted with donuts, the cop version of hugs and flowers. She's a celebrity now, the woman who killed Red John. She's a legend.

She accepts the slaps on the back good-naturedly. Only her own team is subdued. Grace and Cho look tired, but pleased to have her back. One step closer to the team they need to be again. Rigsby's desk is empty, and will be for a while, maybe forever. She doesn't know if he'll want to return.

She's barely made it to the solitude of her office when the door opens, and Jane breezes in as if nothing has happened.

"You look tired," he observes. "Not sleeping well?"

She boots up her computer. "I'm fine."

His face is serious. "Thank you. For what you did. No one else would have—"

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "What? Almost kill you? I figured worst case scenario, I wouldn't have to dodge anymore complaints about you."

She swears his eyes harden a little bit. How many times has he treated death so casually? He can deal with it.

"You didn't return any of my calls, Lisbon. I was worried about you."

"I didn't answer my phone at all. I needed time, Jane." She sets about checking her email, pointedly ignoring him.

When she looks up, he's gone.

XXX

Weeks pass and they fall into familiar rhythms. It's late at night, and she and Jane are sitting in her car, watching a suspect's house. She sips coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

Out of the blue Jane (who she thought fell asleep hours ago) says, "I want to talk about what happened."

She takes another sip. "There's nothing to talk about. I shot Red John. We won. We keep catching the bad guys."

"You're angry at me," he observes.

_Why? Because you asked me to kill you, you selfish bastard?_ she thinks. "I'm not."

Jane is quiet for a moment, and then says, "Timothy Carter told me to move on, to find a woman and start a family." He sighs. "I told him I couldn't until Red John was dead."

Teresa takes another sip.

"I sold the house," he says. "In Malibu."

"That's good." She knows she's being a bitch.

She can feel his discomfort radiating off of him. It's awful, and her stomach churns. She hasn't felt this way since she was a kid in high school, turning down some boy's offer to take her to the prom. If he _is_ offering, that is. She's never sure with Jane. Maybe he's just making conversation, ignorant to the number of times she imagined herself helping him paint over that smiley face.

"I think I'd like that," he says. "To be married again. To have a family." His voice is as vulnerable as she's ever heard it.

"You should," she says. "I hope you find her."

They don't talk for the rest of the night. The next night Jane sits with Cho.

XXX

Jane solves the case. His little snare works perfectly, but doesn't feel any pride in it. They all look resigned when Grace hauls the killer away in handcuffs. It's almost as if every case is anticlimactic after Red John.

He lets himself into his new place and drops the keys in a dish on the counter. He's opened a credit card, an interesting process since he hasn't had a credit history in a decade, and furnished the place to his liking. He buys luxurious sheets and towels. He buys new clothes. He still wears his suits to work, but he dresses more casually at home now. He changes into micro-fiber pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt.

He looks at the bed, but doesn't crawl into it just yet. The comforter is emerald green. Both pillows are the expensive memory foam kind. He bought two, even though he only needs one. He also bought a state of the art coffee pot and has pricey Kona beans in his freezer.

He's been furnishing the place for her, for when she finally joins him.

They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to finally move on with their lives. At least, that's what he thought. He thought there was some understanding that was implicit in their relationship that once Red John was dead, they would act on all the feelings they had been dancing around.

Now he realizes that his quest to find Red John left him free and her shackled to the guilt that consumed him for years. His obsession was like a car accident, he was the drunk driver who staggered away unhurt while Lisbon and Rigsby were crushed inside.

He touches the soft comforter, runs his hands over his pillow. Maybe he was the only one with the domestic fantasy. Maybe he deluded himself into thinking Lisbon would want this life with him.

He sits down on the bed and rubs his tired eyes. Maybe, but he still needs to try. He has such a large hole in his chest yet to fill up. He wants her to take up all that space left inside of his life. He wants her to be the one he moves on with.

Love and affection. He hasn't wooed a woman since Angela. He's woefully out of practice.

XXX

Teresa needs a drink and maybe a man for the night. It's Saturday and just having one day with no work to fill it is driving her insane. Her skin feels hot and too tight. She can't stand having the time and quiet to think, and she can only work out and clean her apartment so many times. TV and books are no distraction. Every time the pages whisper when she turns them, she hears the rattle of air in Rigsby's chest as he struggles to breathe. Every cop drama she flips past on TV makes her twitch.

She needs someone to distract her until dawn, and barring that, the opportunity to get plastered without the worry of being alone.

She puts on a little black dress, some perfume and does her hair. She goes to a bar she's never been to before. She mostly frequents cop bars, and that won't work tonight.

The place she picks is trendy and loud, not all her cup of tea. It's perfect. She sits at the bar, orders a glass of wine. She lets the loud thump of the music drown out all the little demons scrabbling around her head. She doesn't have the energy to approach any of the men there so she waits for one to approach her. Worst case scenario, she'll at least have a hangover tomorrow to keep her occupied.

She downs the wine in a few gulps.

The bartender pours a scotch from the top shelf and slides to her.

"I didn't order this," she says.

He points to the other end of the bar.

Jane raises his hand from where he's sitting; at least, she thinks it's Jane. As he stands up to saunter over to her, she sees he's wearing a pair of jeans and a blue cashmere sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The effect is remarkable with his blue eyes.

Teresa is so used to him in his three piece suits that it's almost as startling as if he was naked. She watches him walk. He pulls off jeans a little too well. It's unfair to the rest of the male population.

She glances down as he settles on the stool next to hers. Scuffed brown shoes. It's Jane, not his doppelgänger.

She sips the scotch; it burns pleasantly on the way down.

"You look lovely tonight," Jane says. She has to lip-read half of it because of the music.

_So this is what he does at night_, she thinks. _Now that Red John is gone and he's free, he scours the bars for available women. How nice that he gets to move on with life. How nice that he gets what he wants_.

Before she realizes what she's saying, she asks, "Do I know you from somewhere?" She takes another sip. "You look familiar."

Surprise flashes in Jane's eyes, and then he says, "No, I don't think so. I'm Patrick."

She holds out her hand. "Teresa."

Instead of shaking it, he kisses her warmly on the palm, too intimate for strangers.

She presses her hand, now scalding hot, against the cool bar top.

"Thanks for the drink," she says.

"You looked like you needed it," he replies easily, sipping his own scotch.

She sneers. "Thanks."

"You look like a woman who needs a fine scotch in her to stomach the thought of sitting here with all these rich, pretentious yuppies," he adds smoothly.

She sniffs. "I come here all the time."

He just grins lazily at her. "You don't belong here anymore than I do." He trails a finger softly down the bare skin of her back to where her dress begins.

She swallows the rest of her drink then looks him straight in the eye. "Then let's get out of here."


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece. **Thanks for the awesome reviews, you guys. I really appreciate it.**

Soundtrack: I listen to music when I write. While I was writing this chapter (and the next) I listened to Oh My God by P!nk, Skin by Madonna and What Would Happen by Meredith Brooks.

IV.

Jane sips his scotch lazily. Her skin feels feverish against the pad of his index finger. "Why are you in a hurry?" he asks.

Lisbon's pupils are dilated. It isn't the first time he's noticed that when she looked at him, but he's kept the information filed away until now.

"Are you objecting because we just met?" Her voice is smooth as satin. He's never seen this side of her before. It's intoxicating and a little jarring.

He wonders at her game. He was surprised when she pretended not to know him, but he recovered quickly enough. Why the pretense?

It has been easy enough to follow her here. From the surprise in her eyes when she saw him at the end of the bar, she hadn't even picked up his distinctive car as it tailed her. That worries him a little.

She leans her, her breath scotch-soaked and sweet. "I really don't want to be alone tonight, Patrick."

His stomach clenches with desire at the way his name rolls off her tongue seductively. The times he imagined her saying it pale in comparison to this.

He swallows the rest of his drink so he has time to consider her ploy. He's not opposed to role-playing within the context of a relationship, but this is something else. She's made it abundantly clear that she has no interest in pursuing domesticity with him.

Her hand settles on his leg. His eyebrow quirks up. She is apparently interested in other things, though.

He wonders if her lips taste as good as they look, all berry-red and pouty. She's always had a delectable mouth. He wonders if he's being _used_.

He covers her hand with his and moves it farther up his thigh.

Her eyes widen in surprise, just barely, then she recovers. She's expecting him to back out, he thinks. _Screw that_. Patrick Jane is the master of the long con. Lisbon has no idea what she's just started.

"I'm normally not opposed to a little casual sex between strangers," he says his voice low, "but the truth is I'm…coming out of a very bad relationship, if you will. I'm feeling a little fragile."

She snorts and looks away hiding her smile. "I bet you say that to butter all the girls up."

He signals the bartender for another round, although he knows it's probably a bad idea. "First of all, I only sleep with women, not girls," he corrects, "so if you aren't ready for a grown-up relationship, we should probably end this now."

Her eyes darken a little bit. He can see pulse jump in her neck. "I'm not looking for a relationship."

He ignores her. "I also wouldn't lie about something like this." He sips the freshly poured scotch. "It was a very dysfunctional decade-long relationship."

She shifts a little closer, turns toward him, and her bare knees brush his. "What if I promise to be gentle?" she asks.

He grins. "I wouldn't believe you." He hooks his hand around her knee, rubs tiny circles on the skin with his thumb. He's becoming uncomfortably aroused. He can feel her pulse on the back of her knee. She is too, he realizes with no small degree of satisfaction.

_Do you have any idea how long I've dreamed of touching you like this?_ he thinks. He watches her throat as she swallows the last of her drink.

She sighs in pleasure. "I'm ready? How about you?"

He squeezes her knee. "Painfully so, but I'd rather not do this in a restroom or alley."

She flushes a little. "I didn't mean…"

He leans over and brushes his lips against her ear. "Do you want to back out, _Teresa_?"

Her eyes narrow just a little; her lips pull back in a feral smile at the challenge. Hidden by the proximity of their bodies, her hand shifts to his groin, presses down. He jumps in surprise.

"Yup, you're ready," she says smugly. She slides off her stool and waits for him. He throws some cash down on the bar not really paying attention, and hustles her out of the crowded room. He's pretty sure he just tipped the bartender fifty bucks.

He leads her to his car, opens the door for her. The cool night air is clearing the buzzing in his head a bit. How far is he willing to take this? The skin of her legs is pale as she settles in the seat. As far as she wants to, he realizes.

He doesn't typically seduce women by sleeping with them ten minutes after they "meet," but Lisbon isn't a typical woman. If she wants to see this thing through to the end he will, and he will make sure that she never leaves. He is grinning when he slides into the passenger seat.

She watches him drive, her eyes dark and liquid. The streetlights highlight her body red and green. She leans across the seat and starts kissing his neck, stroking his leg.

He tries to focus on the road. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

After a moment she sits up a little straighter and asks, "Where are we going?"

"My place. I don't know where you live, _remember_?" he says.

She's slipping out of the game. _Good_.

"Not some cheap motel, I hope," she asks.

"Not at all."

He manages to make it to his apartment without running them off the road, which is impressive given what her small hands are doing to him.

He keeps his hand on the small of her back until they reach they elevator. The moment the doors slide closed he presses her against the wall, kissing her roughly. Kissing Teresa Lisbon is better than he imagined. Her tongue is like whiskey-soaked velvet against his, her lips soft and insistent. Her fingers slide through his hair, caress his neck. For a moment he considers pressing the emergency stop button and hoisting her legs up around his waist, sliding into her right there.

She bites his lip softly as the doors whisper open again. He groans.

One of his elderly neighbors, a tiny woman in a pink wool cardigan, is waiting for the elevator. She holds the leash for a minuscule butterscotch colored dog. Both stare at them with slightly scandalized expressions, although he thinks the dog might just be naturally bug-eyed.

"Excuse us," he says politely, as they awkwardly pass the old woman. "She's insatiable. I cry myself to sleep at night, but…" The door slides shut as the woman gasps in shock.

"You're going to give her a heart attack," Lisbon says slyly.

"She weighs eighty pounds and she's walking her dog at midnight. She's a tough old bird," he observes.

He opens the door to the apartment, her hands snaking under his shirt as he fumbles with the key.

"Nice place," she murmurs as they enter. He thinks he can hear a twinge of bitterness in her voice.

"Just got it," he says, suddenly guilty. What he wants to say is, _I wanted to show it to you. I wanted to bring you here first, have you bless this place. I bought it for us_. He doesn't know what she would do if he broke the ruse, so he keeps in character. "Did you want a drink?"

Lisbon stands in the middle of living room, reaches behind her, and unzips her dress. It falls into a silken, black puddle at her feet. She is all toned alabaster skin and black lace. He sucks in a breath.

"Nope," she says.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Rating M for violence, language and adult situations. Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. It's been about a decade since I've written anything longer than an email so it's good to know it's not total crap.

Soundtrack: I listen to music when I write. While I was writing this chapter (and the next) I listened to Oh My God by P!nk, Skin by Madonna and What Would Happen by Meredith Brooks.

V.

Lisbon walks back to him, hips swaying a little. Long strands of dark hair spill over her white shoulders, the tips curling just at the edge of her bra. She stops just in front of him, her hands brushing softly over his chest. He feels the heat of her fingers through the cashmere.

His mind fast-forwards through every fantasy he's had about her the past years, every secret dream he allowed himself when he felt the darkness closing in. The need to touch her is unbearable. His hand shakes as he reaches up to touch a strand of soft, midnight hair. The backs of his fingers brush against the swell of her breast. Her skin is soft and jasmine scented.

For a minute he is terrified. He hasn't been intimate with a woman in ten years. The sex with Lorelei wasn't intimacy; it was barely sex.

If Lisbon were some random woman he'd picked up in bar his stomach wouldn't be in knots right now. He would fall back into a familiar routine destined to please but mislead all at once. The thought of playing that role with her feels cheap and gaudy.

He traces a finger against her throat, knowing his breathing his harsh and ragged, and knowing that she's noticed it. For too many years she has been a light in the window, guiding him to safety, yet too pure and perfect to touch. Now he wants nothing more than to show her how he wants her as a woman, loves her as so much more than a friend. He wants to mark her somehow, make her his. He wants to pay her back for all the pain she suffered along with him.

She presses a tiny kiss to his mouth. "Do you want to back out, Patrick?"

He swallows hard at her tone. She has no idea what this means to him, and she's playing with him. It's like a sucker punch to the gut. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself.

_The long con_.

He slides to his knees in front of her in one fluid movement, his hands going to her hips. She gasps in surprise.

He closes his eyes as he kisses the flat plane of her stomach, each slightly protuberant hip bone. Her hands fist in his hair as his nose brushes against the lace covering her sex. He relishes her smell, intimate and just for him.

She licks her lips. "You don't have to…" Suddenly she sounds unsure.

He presses a hot kiss to the lace. "What do you want, Teresa? What do you want me to do? I'll do whatever you want."

She sucks in a deep breath. "I'm not sure." Her voice sounds small.

He looks up at her, his lips ghosting over her skin. "Should I do what I want then? There are so many things I _want_, Teresa."

She bites her lip.

He slides his hands over thighs, her ass, and stands up, lifting her with him. She wraps her legs around him as he carries her farther into the apartment. Only the light over the kitchen sink is on, suffusing the living room and dining area in a soft amber glow. He means to go to the bedroom, but her mouth finds his, kissing him with trembling lips. He settles for the dining room table. He lowers to the wooden surface, knowing it must be cool against her back. She keeps his hips cradled between her legs, holding him to her.

She moves her lips to his ear, to his neck. He shudders against her. Her hands are searing when they slide under his sweater, slide up his stomach to his chest. She pushes the sweater over his head and he sighs in pleasure at the heat of her skin against his. He pulls back long enough to look at her, spread out beneath him on his table; her eyes full of sex, hair a dark cloud spreading out around her. She fumbles impatiently with his fly, but he pushes her hands away.

Her bra hooks in front; he flicks it open. Her breasts are remarkably beautiful, full and pale and tipped in rose. He can't believe she keeps them hidden beneath button downs and blazers. He holds them in his hands, massages the soft skin, and then bends his head to taste them. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is, but he doesn't have the words.

His mouth busy, he slips his hand under the waistband of her underwear and she helps him slide them off her legs. Without really thinking about it, he tucks them into the back pocket of his jeans. His mouth moves of its own volition to her throat, to suck on the pulse point there. His fingers find the soft hair between her thighs, slide inside of her. She moans, arches beneath him.

She is silky wet and so hot. He strokes her lovingly, softly, his thumb caressing the tiny bundle of nerves at her apex. She whimpers and he continues the rhythm, his mouth sliding to her ear.

"You're so close aren't you?"

She is panting.

He crooks his fingers toward his body in a vaguely come-hither gesture. He finds the place he is searching for, presses upward. Her hips lift off the table and she cries out, her body squeezing his fingers convulsively.

He grins, pleased he still remembers some things.

He pulls back and out of her, kissing her mouth tenderly while she catches her breath.

After a moment she sits up, legs dangling on either side of him. Her cheeks are flushed. She reaches for the button of his jeans, but he catches her hands and holds them in his.

"It's alright," he says, still grinning.

She looks confused. "I don't understand."

"We don't need to take this any further," he says. "You got what you came here for."

A shadow passes over her face leaving hurt and indignation behind. For a moment he feels awful. Then she slaps him. Hard.

He puts a hand to his cheek reflexively. "Ow. Jesus."

She slides off the table, starts adjusting her bra and reaching for her dress. "You asshole," she says, and he thinks he can hear tears in her voice.

He grabs her arm. "Hey."

She shifts, and he dodges, expecting another blow. "Hey," he says seriously. "I haven't had that much fun in a decade."

She is positively incandescent with rage. It would be adorable if he wasn't sure she could kill him. Cautiously he steps behind her and zips up her dress. "I told you that I don't want a casual relationship," he murmurs. "I'm not ready for it. I'm still…raw."

Her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment and anger. He can tell she's wavering, about to drop the ruse. He's made her feel too vulnerable; his Lisbon isn't much of a liar. It isn't in her nature. He settles his hands on her waist, and she lets him touch her, leans into him just a bit. He wants so badly to pull her into his arms and just keep her there for a while.

"If you want to stay the night," he says softly, "then I want you here in the morning, too." _Every morning_, he thinks.

He can see her giving in, just a little. Her voice is hoarse. "I should go."

He feels something inside him crack. "I'll drive you." He pulls on his sweater, retrieves his keys.

The air in the car is cool. The streets are empty. He gets to her place too quickly.

Before he stops the car he says, "I'd really like to see you again, Teresa."

She pauses. "Are you asking me out on a date?" She sounds incredulous.

"Yes, I Patrick, am asking you, Teresa, out on a date," he clarifies.

Her eyes glitter a little in the streetlights, and for a moment he wonders if she's crying. When she turns back to him she's composed. "I think that would be okay," she says finally. "But I work odd hours."

"Me too," he says quietly.

"Friday night?" she asks.

"Sure." He leans over, kisses her softly. He thinks this will be longest con he's ever run.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

VI.

Teresa stands in line for coffee on Monday, silently hoping Jane won't make it in to work. She's pretty sure she can't face him knowing the man had his face pressed lovingly against her crotch. Also she thinks he might still have her panties, and she can't decide if that irritates or arouses her. She shifts in line and sighs. Both, sadly.

"Hey, Boss."

She turns to see Van Pelt step into line behind her, way too happy for a Monday morning.

"So…" Van Pelt's voice drops into that conspiratorial whisper girls do when they're talking in front of their lockers. "I heard you had a date this weekend."

Lisbon's whole body goes rigid. She will kill him. She will shoot him and go to the chair.

Van Pelt looks embarrassed, awkward. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything…Jane mentioned it, so I thought…"

Teresa sucks in a breath. If he is in the men's room showing off her panties to the male population of the CBI she will shoot him in the knee and let him bleed to death. "Jane said?" she asks, forcing her voice to sound normal.

Van Pelt sifts uncomfortably. "He said he saw you at a bar with some guy. That he seemed nice," she says, much more subdued now.

Some of the adrenaline wears off. "He said what now?"

"That he saw you at a bar, with a date, that's all." Van Pelt shrugs. "I asked him what he did this weekend, and he said he went out and ran into you."

Teresa moves forward in line, mental gears cranking away. What possible motive could he have for mentioning it unless he was either going to tease her mercilessly or announce to the team that he had her panties? Why act like she was with another man?

_Because she was_, she realizes. _Because he's still playing the game_.

He's raising the stakes, announcing to her team that's dating someone. He's hoping to trip her up, make her uncomfortable at work. She snorts. _Good luck, boy-oh_.

Van Pelt gives her an odd look.

"Sorry," Teresa says, "Just thinking about Jane and his little mind games. Yea, I had a date. It was nice. Don't remember seeing Jane there though."

"Oh," Van Pelt says, clearly sensing the subject is now closed.

Teresa's hands have stopped shaking. She orders a triple-shot latte. Jane is in for a hell of a week.

XXX

It turns out no one is in for much of a week at all. They work on old cases, and Teresa half expects the phone to ring at the last minute, the call from some po-dunk little police force ruining her Friday night date.

The call never comes.

By Friday she is more tense than she wants to admit, even to herself. For some reason it has been easy to work shoulder to shoulder with Jane, to roll her eyes at his antics, and to separate him from the man she's seeing tonight. Somehow there is a difference between Jane and Patrick.

By noon all she can think about is the fact that the man gave her a mind –blowing orgasm on his kitchen table and she hasn't even seen him with his pants off yet. She absently runs her fingers over her lips in the memory of his kisses, demanding and yielding all at once. She thinks about how she must have looked, naked and begging beneath him, and how he held onto his control the entire time. _Bastard._

By two she's given up any pretense of doing work. She marches into the bullpen. "Van Pelt, I have an important assignment I need your help with," she announces. The redhead perks up.

She looks at Rigsby and Cho. "You guys can take off early. There's nothing going on here." She glances at Jane, napping on the couch. "You…keep up the good work," she mutters on a sigh.

He gives her the "okay" sign and closes his eyes again.

Van Pelt manages to contain her enthusiasm until they are in the car. "What is it?" she asks in a hushed whisper.

"You and I," Teresa begins, buckling her seatbelt, "are going shopping."

Teresa doesn't have many female friends, and the art of shopping, especially to pick out something for a hot date, is something largely lost on her. Van Pelt is positively giddy. For a moment Teresa wonders if she made the right choice, but somehow having a female bonding session at the mall feels good, like she's making up for something important she's neglected over the years.

"I really need to pick up some stuff for my date," Teresa explains. "Actually 'dates,' probably. I think this might last awhile." _As long as he can hold out, anyway_. "And most of my clothes are kind of…cop-ish."

Van Pelt suggests several boutique stores she's never heard of. Teresa is holding up a pair of dark skinny jeans when Van Pelt says, "Oh, not those, they'll be so hard to get off." The redhead's face flushes immediately.

For a moment Teresa is stymied, then she bursts out laughing. "You're right. We should stick mostly with skirts. And we need to pick up some lingerie too."

XXX

Lisbon is late. Jane resists the urge to check the time, then settles back in his seat and forces himself to be patient. She isn't going to stand him up; he's seen the challenge in her eyes all week. He knows she's been looking forward to his as much as he has.

He chose a nice little Italian place, intimate, and with phenomenal food. The idea, quite honestly, is to get them both so stuffed that they won't be able to act on any physical urges later in the evening. The truth is he doesn't trust himself. He's been reliving the feel of Lisbon writhing beneath him all week, torturing himself with the memory of her silky soft skin. He's afraid if he doesn't do something to dissuade his body, he'll end up blowing the con and spending the night in her bed.

He takes a sip of wine. He isn't going there until he's assured that this is real, this is them.

It takes him a moment to realize the brunette in the red dress sauntering over to his table is actually Lisbon. She's practically poured into the red sheath and every male head in the restaurant turns to watch her walk. Her hair is curled, her lips painted scarlet.

His mouth goes dry.

He doesn't know whether to exact revenge on Van Pelt or buy her flowers.

Lisbon leans over him, her cleavage on full display and presses a quick kiss to his mouth. "Sorry I'm late."

Jane helps her into her chair, regains control of his tongue. "You look…amazing."

She blushes a little but says, "That's so clichéd."

"You're right," he says, "I can do better." He thinks for a moment. "You look like the reason for the color red, just so it could contrast with your white skin, dark hair, emerald eyes, right this moment. Everything before this was incidental."

She pours herself a glass of wine, shrugs. "That's better."

He lets out a puff of air. "You're a tough woman to please."

She smirks. "Apparently not."

He feels a twinge in his stomach. "I like to think I worked for it," he says softly. "And for the record, I don't regret any of it, Teresa." He slides his hand across the table, squeezes hers.

For a moment they both hold their breath, taken by the intimacy of the moment. It's exhilarating. This is what he wants, these quiet moments when it's just the two of them unguarded. No sarcastic banter, no stress of a case hanging over their heads. He just wants her, smiling and relaxed, all to himself.

He sees something like fear flash in her eyes. She pulls her hand away gently.

He backs away carefully. "Will you be offended if I order for us?" he asks, already knowing her answer.

She surprises him. "Not at all. I've never been here before. I don't know what's good."

Lisbon letting him take control? Interesting. He wonders if she's typically like this on a date.

The waiter, who was discreetly waiting in the shadows, comes forward and takes his order. He selects an obscenely rich and decadent meal, aware of her quirked eyebrow. When the food comes and she takes a bite, her suspicions vanish with a moan.

"I might need a cigarette when this is over," she tells him.

"Now I'm hurt," he says. "You didn't last time we were together."

She blushes again, just a little. It matches the dress.

"So," he says casually, "how was your week at work?"

He can see her working out how to keep the pretense alive.

"I mean, that is what people usually ask on dates, right?" he asks. "I'm out of practice."

She rises to the challenge. "It was slow, actually. Although I have a lazy employee who managed to annoy me most of the week." She takes a bite of her linguini, swallows. "You?"

He smiles. "I have a neurotic, controlling boss I managed to drive nuts most of the week."

"Hmm, sounds like she and I could relate," Lisbon replies, twirling pasta around her fork.

"Oh I don't think so, you two are nothing alike," he comments.

Her voice is dry. "Really."

"Well for one thing, she's very buttoned up. You wouldn't see her in that little red dress, for instance," he says. "Also, I suspect she's sexually repressed."

She scowls as she sips her wine, sets the glass down a little hard. "Really?" Now her voice is positively glacial.

He sighs as if in pity and nods his head. "All that built up tension. You should see how the woman goes through antacids and aspirin. Honestly, what she probably needs are a few really good, bone-melting orgasms." He smiles at her. "You know?"

He can see her sucking in air. "Ja—" She catches herself. "Patrick, that is an incredibly sexist thing to say. If she was a man she wouldn't be neurotic and controlling. She'd have 'leadership qualities.'"

He takes a drink, considers her words. "True, but if she was a man, I probably wouldn't be thinking about her sex life."

"You shouldn't be thinking about it at all," she points out a little frostily.

"I can't help it. I've had a horrible crush on the woman for half a decade. I'm just now getting over it." He looks at her pointedly. "Thank you very much for that."

He gives her a moment to process this by signaling the waiter and ordering dessert, a layered chocolate cake with raspberry sauce.

She's fiddling with the stem of her wine glass when the waiter walks away. He can see the slightly shocked expression still on her face. "Five years. That's a really long time."

He shrugs. "She's…different than anyone I've met before. Better, kinder, tougher." He suddenly feels overwhelmed by this admission, almost embarrassed. "But I uh, haven't exactly been emotionally available."

"So you expected her to just wait for you and then she didn't." Lisbon's voice is a little bitter.

"Something like that," he admits. "And truthfully I deserved her rejection."

They are interrupted by the cake, and he breathes a momentary sigh of relief. He sees her eyeing up the dessert lustfully, and he passes her a spoon. "That's real whipped cream," he says conspiratorially.

She eyes him suspiciously, but with a little smile. She snatches the spoon. "That's just cruel," she says. "I'm never going to be able to fit into this dress again."

XXX

They stand in front of the restaurant, waiting for the valet to retrieve their cars. The evening is cool and she's wearing his jacket. Jane thinks that this was the best date he's ever had, and it wasn't even real, which is tellingly sad.

Lisbon looks relaxed, happy, he realizes. He's only seen her like this a few times, when she let her walls down. Without thinking about it he leans down and kisses her. It's long and sweet and tender.

The valet coughs politely. Jane wants to tell Lisbon to shoot him.

"Do you want to follow me to my place?" she asks quietly. Her eyes are large and dark. He can see she's nervous.

"I don't want to rush things," he says. His entire body screams 'liar.' He knows if he goes with her he's going to spend the night and ruin whatever chance he has of making this real.

She bites her lip. "Just for tea." She smooths her hand down the front of his shirt. "Promise."

He swallows. He can do this. He is a master at self-punishment. He can go have tea at her place and not press her up against her wall and ravage her until they're both exhausted and senseless. He can totally do that.

"Sure."


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

**Thank you to all my great reviewers. I'm so excited when I see a new review! This is a short, but hopefully, intense chapter. With luck I'll post some longer ones this weekend. **

VII.

Every few seconds Teresa checks her review mirror to make sure Jane's blue Citroën is still following her. She isn't sure that inviting Jane back to her place was the best idea, despite her intention to get him to break character first.

She clenches her hands on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. She feels like she's fallen down the rabbit hole.

Two years ago she would have denied being in love with Patrick Jane. She was attracted to him, still is, but most women are, and it was something she easily set aside. Somewhere along the way the casual touches began to linger, the words between them seemed so benign but were laced with meaning. A simple "Thank you" became code for "I missed you." A cup of tea or a latte was like gentle kiss of reassurance_. It's okay. I love you, I understand you, even if no one else does_.

When he told her loved her, right as he shot her, she knew she was sunk. There was no denying that this twisted romance between them was real. When he told her he loved her, right before _she_ shot _him_, she realized how sick it really was. Was it possible to love someone so much you'd kill them because they asked you to?

She swipes at an angry tear. She has to stop loving damaged men. It's ruining any chance she has at happiness. She's forty. She's childless. She'd like to have someone to settle down with someday.

The thing that galls her the most is how ambivalent Jane is about the whole thing. She nearly kills him, proving how deep her unrequited love is, and he recovers then moves on with his life. She spends years pining and poisoning herself with _his_ obsession, and he blithely lets it all go. She can't forget. She wakes up sweating and shaking with nightmares. She still smells Rigsby's blood.

So she's going to enjoy her little dates with Patrick. She's going to use him for his friendship and affection the way he used her all these years. She's going to sleep with him until that gets old, and then she'll move on. He's taken from her for a decade. He can give a little now.

He parks in front of her place and strolls casually up to the door. It surprises her how nervous he's been, but then again he hasn't done this in a long time. She wonders if he's afraid he can't perform. But then how to explain Lorelei?

He looks positively delicious in a cabernet colored button up and black slacks. She almost misses the vest, just a little bit.

She unlocks the door, and as he follows her in, she turns and wraps her arms around his neck. She kisses him, deeply, letting her tongue invade his mouth. She's never been a passive lover. He tastes like wine and dark chocolate.

"I thought you were going to behave," he mutters against her lips.

"Lied," she says, and kisses his jaw, his neck. "I want you."

She feels him shudder. She smiles against his skin.

"Teresa," he whispers, "I can't."

She strokes him through his slacks. "Pretty sure you can."

Very carefully he pulls her hand away. "Not yet, please."

He sounds so vulnerable just then that she feels guilty. She sighs, kicks off her heels and walks into the kitchen. She busies herself putting a kettle of water on. When she turns around he's standing in the doorway, looking at her with fathomless blue eyes, his hands in his pockets. He's so…sexy. This whole no-sex policy is unfair. He owes her for everything she's put up with.

She crosses her arms over her stomach. "So what's the deal?" she asks.

"I just met you," he points out. "I'm trying to be a gentleman here."

She snorts. "Sheep dip."

He shrugs. "I told you I don't want a casual relationship."

_If I give you anything more than that, you'll break my heart_, she thinks. She turns away and starts steeping the tea. "It's not like I come on to every guy I date like this," she says a little defensively.

"I didn't think you did," he offers gently. "We have a certain chemistry."

She hands him a cup of tea and takes it, sips it. His eyes never leave hers. Then Jane sets the cup on her countertop, takes a step forward, and kisses her. It's nothing like the way she kissed him. It's so full of passion, but tenderness too. He's not being invasive or possessive, instead he's lingering in all the right spots, drawing a reaction out of her. His fingers thread through her hair. She's never been kissed like this, ever, like she's the most desirable woman in the world.

When he pulls back she says, "What was that?"

"I thought you were a detective," he smirks.

"Never told you that," she mutters. She feels breathless.

He ignores her comment. His fingers slide down her neck. "I love how I can smell your perfume when your skin flushes," he says.

She wonders if he's noticed that before, the times in the office when he's made her blush. Probably.

He takes her hand and pulls her into the living room. "Let's watch TV," he says.

She looks at him. "Are you for real?"

"As far as I know, yes, I am for real," he replies. "I could be a hallucination, but I seriously doubt it."

He settles onto her couch and pulls her down with him. He's propped up against one end of the couch, his legs spread down the length of it. She settles back into his lap as he slides down, so she's resting with her head on his shoulder, her legs between his. She's fantasized about stretching out over him on the couch in the bullpen or in her office. He feels larger than she expected. Jane never emphasizes his physical presence the way other men do. Lying across him she realizes he's much larger than she is, solid, and warm.

His hands settle on her back, just a little too low for friends. She sighs. It feels good.

He picks up her remote, flips on the nature channel, and for an hour they silently watch a show about Meer Kats.

She listens to the narrator describe the little animal families, how they remain so vigilant for each other's safety. Crazily she feels her throat begin to close with the beginning of tears. She wants a family so badly, even if it's a family of two. She wants this to be their life, cuddling, watching TV like old married people. She wants to feel his warmth like this every day. _But how does she trust a man who would ask her to break her own heart? Who would ask her to kill him?_

Tears threaten to spill over her eyelashes, and she feels his hand stroking the back of her head. She knows he can tell she's about to cry. He can tell everything.

Without thinking she slides down his body and starts unbuckling his pants. He jumps a little in surprise and she's gratified.

"Teresa, what are you doing?" he asks.

She swallows her grief and puts on a smile. "I thought you were a detective," she says smugly.

He's hard against her hand. He twitches when she slides her hands inside his clothes and touches him, skin to skin. His voice is hoarse. "Teresa…" It's a warning.

"I owe you," she murmurs. "For last time."

She can hear him swallow. "You really don't have to do that."

She shakes her head at how obtuse he can be. "I really want to, Patrick."

His whole body tenses when she takes him into her mouth. He's absolutely rigid, muscles in his neck corded, and she wonders for a moment if he really can't handle this, if she's crossed a line.

Then she sees him resign himself to the feeling, sees his head fall back, lips slightly open. His eyes are closed, but not squeezed shut. He seems at peace and in awe all at once. She caresses him, teases him, torments him a little too. His hands fall to her hair, carefully not directing any movement. His fingers are shaking a little.

Having this kind of power over him is intoxicating, thrilling. She wants to draw this out, to enjoy the sensation for hours. She's a little disappointed when he climaxes, but mostly she's smug.

He lets out a shuddering breath, looks at her in bewilderment. "That was… thank you."

She tucks him back into his pants, zips him up. "You don't have to thank me."

He seems to positively melt into her sofa. She crawls up him to lie on his chest again. He seems a little embarrassed when he says "I haven't felt anything that good in a very long time."

She's practically purring in satisfaction. She managed to reduce the great Patrick Jane to a big, sappy puddle.

She realizes they are both falling asleep there. She wants to invite him to her bed, to ask him to just hold her tonight, but realizes how dangerous that is.

She sits up. "I'm tired, Patrick. I think it's time to call it a night."

He touches her cheek, leans forward and kisses her like before. It makes her regret kicking him out, but Teresa Lisbon is a strong woman.

For a moment she thinks he's about to say "I love you," but then he gets up, kisses her one more time, and leaves.

The apartment feels hollow.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

VIII.

Jane spends most of Saturday living with the ghost of Lisbon's mouth on his skin. He lies in his new bed (memory foam mattress, Egyptian cotton sheets) and stares at the ceiling and debates touching himself. He doesn't want to cheapen the memory by doing that.

In the course of a week he's experienced more intimacy than he has in ten years. He is still a little stunned by what she did for him, although he shouldn't be. He feels like a teenager experiencing sex again for the first time.

He had always wanted Lisbon, but somehow he never expected it to be like this. She has always been practical and efficient, and somehow he expected the sex to be the same. He knew she was passionate, but there's a thrilling, dark edge to what they have that he's never experienced. He had assumed they would fall into a comfortable sort of embrace. He had no idea it would be like this: love tinged with a shadowy want that is so intense it threatens to swallow him whole.

He is afraid that he'll give up his dream of a happily-ever-after with Teresa Lisbon for the tempation of nights filled with dark-eyed promises, swollen lips and jasmine skin. Those nights might be enough to sustain him.

XXX

Red John slips his hands into Rigsby's abdomen, shifts around in there. Rigsby makes a horrible high pitched sound, like a dying rabbit, that is swallowed by a choking gargle. Red John is sorting through viscera like she would sort through tomatoes at the grocery store.

He sighs, almost dis-interestedly. "I really thought this would be more enjoyable, Agent Lisbon," he says regretfully. "But sometimes work is just work, yes?"

She wants to scream, wants to kill him, wants to kill herself so she doesn't have to see the pain in Wayne's eyes. She can't move. She feels like a bug suspended in amber.

"Now, if it were your beloved Patrick, then we would be having fun," he muses. "I wonder what his intestines would feel like." His purr is vaguely sexual.

She feels her pulse rise, but still her muscles don't even twitch.

"I'd take you apart first," he adds. He's forgotten Rigsby who has gone alarmingly white. "Maybe hand Patrick some of your parts, one at a time, so he can see how lovely you are inside as well as out."

He sighs again. His hands are dripping blood. He leans over her and smears the blood on her lips, a garish smile. "There now. You're so beautiful for him. He'll be here soon, Teresa, and then I'm going to make him watch as I kill you. He needs to be punished, Teresa. He needs to be punished for loving you."

He gives her a rictus smile. "You destroy everyone you love, you know that? That's why your father beat your brothers; you just weren't a good enough replacement for your mother. And now Patrick will die because you weren't a good enough cop. Such a pity, such a pity."

Teresa wakes up with a scream stuck in her throat. Her sheets are soaked in sweat and tangled around her. For a minute she doesn't know where she is, what's happening, and then she remembers. She finally fell asleep with the aid of an over-the-counter sleeping pill.

Her dream feels real still. She thinks her lips are sticky with blood, but then she realizes it's her tears. Red John never said those things to her; he said other things, just as bad. Her subconscious mind amplified the hell she lived through, managed to make it worse. She chokes on a sob. How awful that her own mind could have made that _worse_.

She stumbles to the bathroom and throws up what little dinner she had managed to eat. She retches until nothing but bile is left. She turns on every light, but it's not enough to chase away the terror. Her hands are shaking as she pulls on some clothes. She can't be alone now; she can still feel Red John's hands reaching for her, nails raking her skin as he clutches her from beyond the grave.

She doesn't think about it. She just drives.

XXX

The pounding on his door wakes Jane up. He barely makes out the numbers on his alarm clock, his eyes blurred with sleep. A little before four a.m. He managed to fall asleep two hours ago.

The pounding is instant. He knows that knock. It's a cop knock.

He hurries to the door, his brain foggy and legs uncoordinated. He opens the door without even thinking.

Lisbon stands in his hall, small and dark and ragged. Her hair is a halo of sleep-induced tangles and there are shadows streaked beneath her too large eyes. Her lips are pale.

His heart hammers in his chest. "Teresa?"

"I…I needed to um…" She's stammering, her eyes darting around frantically. "I thought maybe you wanted to go for a run with me."

He's stymied but only for a moment. He noticed that she was wearing jogging shorts and a wind-breaker but was so stunned by her dishevelment that he didn't process it.

He backs away from the door, letting her in. She looks cold. Without thinking he draws her against her and rubs her arms. He feels her shudder, feels the silent sobs wracking her small frame. He presses a kiss into her hair, holds her, warms her. He doesn't know how long they stand there, but eventually she pulls back.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers a note of apology in her voice.

He understands immediately. He remembers the dreams after Angela and Charlotte were killed. He remembers how he was nearly psychotic with guilt and exhaustion. His stomach heaves thinking of her living in the same self-imposed hell.

"Do you want to sleep here, Teresa?" he asks quietly.

She sniffs. "I don't think I could." She pulls back and seems to notice him for the first time. He's wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a tee-shirt. She swallows and touches the edge of the shirt absently. "Never thought about what you slept in," she mutters.

He shrugs. "I thought about what you slept in all the time. I was hoping it was the nude." He grins. "Of course now I have a jersey fetish, so thanks for that."

She smiles half-heartedly. "I don't think I could sleep again," she repeats. "I wanted to run. To burn off the adrenaline…"

"But now you burned it off crying," he observes, "and you're feeling shaky and exhausted, but you can't stop your mind from spinning." He knows exactly how she feels.

She nods.

He thinks. "Can I…will you trust me, Teresa?" he asks.

She squeezes her eyes closed. "I don't know if I can trust anything anymore," she whispers raggedly.

The clenching in his stomach is back. He's responsible for all of this. "I can help you sleep for a little bit," he offers.

"You want to hypnotize me."

"Just to help your mind relax," he says gently.

She keeps her eyes closed, thinks for a minute, then she nods.

Wordlessly he leads her to the bedroom, squeezing her hand tightly the whole time. When they reach the doorway she stops, staring at his room with wide eyes, as though it's a den of sin. He looks at the green bedding, the dark wood furnishings, the handful of books stacked on the table; nothing scandalous here.

"It's just a bedroom, Teresa," he says.

She swallows. "It's not. It's a real room. It's not some shitty motel or a cot in the attic."

He squeezes her hand. "It's just a bedroom," he repeats. He ushers her into the room gently and she hesitates as he pushes her toward the bed. She sits on it, her whole body tense. He reaches down and lifts her legs slowly onto the mattress, lays her back against the pillows. He sits down next to her, the mattress shifting under his weight.

She looks so vulnerable then, like a terrified virgin on her wedding night. He leans down and kisses her so softly, a promise imbedded in the touch.

Hands trembling she reaches up and unhooks the cross she wears around her neck. She hands it to him. "Use this," she says.

He takes the chain in his fingers, lets the pendant swing slowly in front of her. "You're sure."

She nods. "You'll stay here, right?"

"I'll stay here," he says. He watches her eyes as they track the cross, swaying back and forth slowly. The gold gleams in the light.

"I want you to think about someplace safe, Teresa, someplace that makes you happy," he says. "We're going to go there together. I want you to see every detail of that place. I want you to notice the way it smells, the temperature of the air…"

She licks her lips. "My office," she murmurs.

He knows that office is more a home to her than any apartment she's ever had. It's more home than the one she grew up in, riddled with violence.

"Do you see the way the light reflects on the dust motes in the air?" he asks. "The way it comes through the slats in your blinds? Can you see the nice soft, white couch? Why don't you lie down on that couch?"

Her eyelids are drooping.

"You can lie down on the couch. The blanket is there. You can cover yourself up. Do you hear Van Pelt and Rigsby and Cho outside in the bullpen? They are out there working, keeping you safe. You aren't alone. Everyone's here with you."

He lets his voice trail off, sees her even breathing. He's afraid to put himself into that fantasy because he hasn't kept her safe, and he's ashamed. He's the reason she's running from bad dreams when she's never run from anything else in her life.

"You're going to sleep on the couch," he says, "As long as you want to. You're going to sleep a nice, peaceful, dreamless sleep until you feel perfectly rested."

Her lips move. He barely hears her say. "And you'll be there too?"

He sets the cross on the table next to her. "I'll be here too."


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

_**Thank you to all my awesome reviewers: Chiisana Minako, Little Firestar84, dearmag (Dani), Sorchauna, CCTheVampireLover, House ever, Jessica, Lingering Sentiments, Raven Claw01, MerriWyllow, visagoth, Pacific Marl, Amri91, Cal13, and all the Guest and anonymous reviews. You guys inspire me to write more! Thank you!**_

IX.

Lisbon sleeps for most of the day, and as promised, Jane doesn't stray far. Initially he crawls into bed next to her, keeping his distance, not sure of how she would want this to play out. He can't stop himself from casually touching her, though. He rests his foot against hers, holds her hand in her sleep. He dozes off, content and comfortable.

When he wakes again he makes himself something to eat and a cup of tea. He showers, changes into fresh pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt, and then returns to the room. He lies next to her, reading or thinking. He's content to let hours pass this way.

When she sighs in her sleep and reaches out for his hand, he lets her take it. He realizes now that this pretense is costing her too much. He's ready to give in to her demands, whatever they are. If Lisbon wants a night of casual sex then he'll provide it. If she wants to crush him up and grind him beneath her heel, he'll allow it. He will suffer whatever she needs, just like she suffered for him in that basement.

If he had known how much he would love her, he would never have joined the CBI. He would have stayed away to spare her the pain of dealing with Red John and with his obsession. His guilt at tainting her life is almost comparable to the guilt he feels over the deaths of his wife and child.

He brushes a strand of hair from her face. He owes her everything, and he'll repay her however she wants, even if it destroys him.

XXX

Teresa wakes feeling more rested than she has in months. She stretches her legs and her toes brush against a warm foot. Her eyes snap open, and she sees Jane propped up next to her, book open on his lap. She realizes then she's holding his hand, and she pulls it away.

He grins, giving her that utterly adorable and charming smile that's so infectious. "Good morning, sunshine. Although it's afternoon, really."

She sits up, remembering now how she came here in a fit of panic and how she let Jane hypnotize her. She feels suddenly ashamed of being so weak. Her hand goes to her hair and feels all the snarls. She groans.

"You look a little like a wild woman," he admits, shutting the book. "But I find it adorable."

"Were you here all day?" she asks.

"Well you asked me to stay," he replies.

"Jane, I'm sorry," she mutters. She doesn't bother calling him Patrick. She came here for Jane, and they both know it.

"Don't be absurd," he says, climbing out of bed. "You needed a friend last night. If anyone understands that, it's me."

She sighs. She realizes she must have horrible morning breath and that she still vaguely smells like nightmare induced sweat.

Reading her mind, like he always does, he says, "You can take a bath if you like. Extra towels are in the closet outside the bathroom. I'll find you something to wear."

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and follows him out of the door.

"I'll make you something to eat," he offers. "Orange juice or coffee?"

"Both," she mutters, rubbing at her neck.

"I suspected you might be grumpy in the mornings, Lisbon, but you're surpassing my expectations," he dead pans, then scoots away from her as she takes a swipe at him.

She finds the towels and the bathroom. Shutting the door she empties her very full bladder, flushes, and begins running the bath. Under the cover of the water running, she snoops. She finds a few extra toothbrushes in a drawer, opens one, and brushes her teeth. In another drawer she finds typical toiletries, nail clippers, cotton swabs, a black plastic comb, and interestingly, a hairbrush. It's unused; the tag is still hanging from the handle. She shrugs, finishes her teeth, then gratefully runs the brush through her hair.

She turns off the tap, strips, and settles into the hot water. A sigh of pleasure escapes her lips and her eyelids fall closed. It's a large tub, not an antique claw foot, but deep enough that when she sinks down the water comes to her chin. She glances at the recessed shelf built into the wall where Jane keeps his soaps. She recognizes a bottle among its more masculine peers and pulls it down. It's the shampoo she uses.

She frowns. Jane told her he stayed with her all day, so when did he pick that up?

The bathroom door swings open, and Jane wanders in like he has every right.

"Jesus Jane!" she shouts, crossing her arms over her chest, knowing it's pointless to try and hide.

He looks surprised. "What?"

"I'm naked!" she shouts, glaring at him for emphasis. He has a glass of juice in his hand, and he sets it down on the edge of the bathtub.

He takes a long, hard look at her body, and she feels a blush rise from her neck on up. "Yes," he agrees, "my keen powers of observation tell me that you are indeed naked."

"Get out," she snarls.

He rolls his eyes. "It's not like I haven't seen you naked before Lisbon. I've been inside of you. Well, parts of me, anyway," he amends. "You're being ridiculous."

She clenches her jaw. She wants to say, but that was Patrick and Teresa, not Jane and Lisbon. It was different. She wasn't vulnerable when they pretended to have no shared history. If they erased their past then she could ignore all the want and trust she had built up over the years, she could guard her heart from disappointment.

She swallows. "I thought we agreed…"

"I didn't agree to anything," he points out.

She feels like he's seeing her naked for the first time, and suddenly she's afraid she's going to disappoint him.

"I had really hoped that tub was big enough for two," he says. "I think it might be."

She narrows her eyes. "Don't you dare."

He sighs. "Another time. I have to make you something to eat, anyway."

He has his hand on the doorknob, turning to go.

"Wait, Jane," she calls.

He has that naughty-boy pleased look on his face. "You want me to join you after all? You're probably going to need to sit in my lap."

She flushes again. "No! Why do you have my shampoo?"

"It's not _your_ shampoo," he points out. "It's the brand you use."

Her blood pressure goes up a notch. "Why. Do. You. Have. It."

"I was hoping one day you'd spend the night, so I wanted to be prepared," he says as if it's nothing. "I've got a pink razor around here somewhere."

"Do you keep Van Pelt's preferred toiletry brands around too?" she snaps.

He rolls his eyes. "Quit being crazy. I obviously don't have any intention of sleeping with Van Pelt."

"But you had the intention of sleeping with me?"

"Hope might be a better word," he replies. "I wanted you to be happy here. With me. I'm starting to realize that I might have been over-reaching."

She rubs her face in frustration. "So after Red John you just planned on us settling down here and never bothered to ask me? What the fuck Jane?"

He rolls back on his heels. He clearly wishes his pajama bottoms had pockets so he could shove his hands in them. "Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not great at relationships, Teresa."

She realizes he slept under a mural painted in his dead wife's blood, wore her ring for a decade. Now he's built her a shrine too, in his way. He's obsessive, she realizes, but well intentioned. She's not sure he could say 'I love you' more clearly than to make some cocky assumptions about their relationship and then act on them in a grandiose manner.

She sighs. "You don't have clothes here for me do you?" she asks. She's thinking clean panties would be great.

"Haven't gotten that far," he admits.

She groans. "What is this Jane? Are we supposed to play house and pretend it's not seriously messed up?"

He glances away from her, a little sad, before meeting her eyes again. "It will be whatever you want, Lisbon. I'll give you whatever you need to be happy, even if it's me backing down and leaving you alone."

"If I told you to just go to hell?" she counters.

"There isn't one," he replies peevishly, "but if there was I'd be going there."

She feels a twinge in her chest. "If I tell you I'm madly in love with Matt from the evidence room and I want you to stand up at our wedding?" Her tone is teasing.

"Matt is obviously a terrible lover, but I'd be there. I'm not wearing pink taffeta though." He makes a face.

She sits up in the water and draws her knees to her chest. "I really don't know what I want."

He smiles at her, a little sadly. "Just let me know when you figure out."

He leaves her alone with her juice.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

_**We're getting to fluff and sexytimes, I promise! Hang in there guys.**_

X.

Jane makes her two scrambled eggs, and slathers some wheat toast with strawberry jam. He sets a steaming cup of coffee next to her plate.

Teresa emerges from the bathroom wearing a pair of boxers and a tee-shirt he left out for her. Both are ridiculously large on her petite frame. Her hair is wet and slicked back, and it makes her eyes look ethereally large.

She sits down next to him and picks up a fork. "Did you buy anything besides shampoo?" she asks. "Did the great Patrick Jane purchase some feminine hygiene products, perhaps?"

He's about to tell her that she's not due for another week when he realizes she's kidding. "No, but it takes more than a tampon to make me squirm, woman."

He thinks about the quest he undertook looking for her shampoo. He smelled every brand at the drug store, the kid stocking the aisles looking at him like he was some kind of pervert, before he realized she must use an expensive salon brand. The salon had been less amenable to his sniffing, but he found it eventually. Thirty dollars a bottle, he marveled, which must explain why her hair was always so shiny and bouncy.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Then she says, "Whatever I want, huh?"

He swallows some toast. "Yup."

Her eyes are sparkling playfully now. "So if I never want you to touch me again?"

"It'll kill me," he says seriously. "But I'll do it."

She smirks. "Remember that brothel we busted into, and the prostitute was leading that guy around by a leash? And he had the collar on and the ball gag and everything?"

"I remember how Grace turned as red as her hair," he replied. "And that the carpeting in that place was horrible."

"So if I wanted that?" she asks.

He looks at her incredulously. "Horrible carpeting?"

She rolls her eyes. "Jane."

"Woman, if you asked me to cut out my own heart and serve it to you on a platter, I'd do it," he replies.

She sighs. "You can't do anything by halves, can you Jane? You couldn't have just asked me out on a date?"

"I tried. In the car. When I told you I wanted to be married again," he points out bitterly. "You shut me down."

She looks down at her plate. "I'm sorry for that."

_I'll let you break my heart, whenever you want_, he thinks with a sigh. He reaches out and brushes her shoulder.

She leans into his touch and sighs. She pushes her plate away and walks over to him, kisses him softly on the mouth. She's hesitant now that she's Lisbon, not Teresa, something he finds both fascinating and baffling. He uses his tongue to coax her into relaxing, draws her into this lap to show her how much he wants her, how real this is. She moans a little and rocks against him, her legs straddling his, her fingers winding through his hair.

"Jane," she murmurs against his mouth.

His heart hammers in his chest. He draws the neckline of the tee-shirt over one shoulder so he can kiss her there, then up her neck, to her jaw. She's humming in pleasure, rocking against him more instantly. He can feel the heat of her core through their clothes.

He pulls her shirt off entirely, skims his hands up her back. She arches into his touch, her breasts on display. He sighs in pleasure and bends his head.

A sharp ringing freezes them both.

Lisbon's fingers dig into his shoulders. "No…" she moans.

The ringing continues, insistent and beyond annoying. She slides from his lap with a growl and stalks into the bathroom where she left her clothes from last night.

He groans, rubbing his hand over his face and sits back in the chair. He'd say that somebody had better be dead, but obviously someone is.

He can hear her snapping at whoever is on the other end of the line. "Yeah. Where? Fine." The phone clicks shut.

She emerges from the bathroom her face dark and serious. "Home invasion, husband and wife killed, six-year-old son is missing," she rattles off. She pulls on her shirt from yesterday.

Once she tells him the kid is missing any lingering desire or irritation he felt at being interrupted vanishes. "Let me change," he says. "I'll meet you at your place and then follow you there."

She already has her keys in her hand. "Don't be late," she orders.

XXX

It never fails to amaze Teresa that no matter how many times she walks into a scene like this, it never gets easier. The house is in a nice neighborhood, the sort of place where people think horrible murders don't happen. She knows that no one is immune to this level of violence. The cream colored carpeting in the living room is drenched in blood. The crime scene techs are struggling to avoid it as they process the body.

"Husband was a prominent plastic surgeon," Van Pelt tells her. "Wife was a homemaker. The missing boy is their son, Charlie, aged six." She hands Teresa a framed school photo of a little boy with brown hair, blue eyes, and a missing front tooth. He has a smattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks.

Teresa studies the body of the father. He's lying face down on the carpeting, what's left of his face and brains splattered against the wall behind him. He's no longer recognizable as a person. The front door is open, the frame splintered. She's guessing he opened the door for whoever was there, then tried to shut it again, and the intruder kicked it in. Blood splatters dot the immaculately clean bay window looking out over the lawn.

"Sac PD is interviewing the neighbors, but so far no one heard or saw anything," Van Pelt adds. "Most people were at church when it happened."

Absently Teresa brings her fingers to the gold cross at her neck. The houses here are spaced far apart. It isn't surprising that no one heard the shots. "Have them keep canvassing. See if anyone remembers a suspicious vehicle or person. Is there an Amber Alert out yet for Charlie?"

Van Pelt looks grim. "Yes, Boss."

She makes her way to the hallway where the wife's body is located, slumped against the wall, her eyes glassy and unseeing. Blood stains the front of her blouse where three tightly grouped bullets took her life.

"Professional grouping," says Cho. "Could be a hit."

They'll need to dig into the family's financials, see if anything is amiss. "Did the police find any drugs in the house, anything suspicious?" she asks, knowing the answer already. She would have heard if they did.

"Just prescriptions belonging to the family, nothing unusual," Cho says. "Of course he was a surgeon so he could have been dealing pain pills out of his office."

Teresa crouches next to the wife, looks for clues hidden in her body. Jane's voice cuts through the air from upstairs.

"Lisbon!" he shouts. "Lisbon!"

She stands up and skips up the stairs two at a time, her hand falling to her holster and unsnapping it.

Jane is in the child's room, standing over an old wooden toy chest with the lid raised. He doesn't appear tense. She keeps her hand on the gun but doesn't draw.

She leans over the toy chest and sees two blue eyes peering back at her from beneath a pile of stuffed animals. She grits her teeth. How did Sac PD miss this? They said they searched the house. She can feel her jaw clenching painfully; so help her, someone will be fired for this.

"It's okay, Charlie," she says, forcing her voice to be gentle. "We're the police; we're here to help you. No one is going to hurt you, okay?"

The child sinks further down into his toys. He looks like wants to melt into the stuffed animals and disappear.

"Well, she's a police officer," Jane offers conspiratorially. "I'm a magician."

The kid blinks at him.

"For real," Jane says. "Do you want to see a trick?"

Charlie doesn't respond but he's gripping a plush polar bear a little less tightly now.

"I'm going to need your help," Jane tells him. "And Teresa here is going to be my beautiful assistant."

Jane reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a shiny silver dollar. "Can you hold this for me?" he asks.

Very slowly he reaches into the toy chest and Charlie uncurls his hand, opening his fingers. Jane presses the coin into the boy's palm. Charlie's hand closes reflexively around it.

"Okay," Jane says. He does some sort of showy flourish with his hands, and then reaches behind her ear. His fingers brush her hair and he pulls out the coin with a "Ta-Da!"

Charlie opens his hand and finds it's empty. His eyes widen in surprise.

"Told you I was a magician," says Jane. "Would you like some juice? I'd really like some juice, myself."

Charlie sits up, clutching the bear again. Jane reaches into the chest and picks him up, lifting him carefully. The boy's pants are wet. Jane ignores it.

Teresa feels something in her chest crack. The kid obviously either saw or heard his parents being killed. She feels sick, then forces it back.

Jane carries the boy down the hallway, away from the bodies so he can't see anything. He takes him into the kitchen. She can hear Jane chattering at Charlie. "Did you know polar bears weigh over a thousand pounds?" he asks. "That's even more than Officer Thompson over there. Hard to believe, I know."

She smiles as she remembers the chunky cop. Leave it to Jane to alienate local law enforcement and endear to himself to a kid all at once.

She finds Van Pelt and says, "Call Child Services. This is going to be bad."


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

_**Here's a short little chapter to keep everyone going. Angst! Sexytimes! Rigsby!**_

_**I probably won't be able to post tomorrow as work is going to keep me out all hours. Thanks for the reviews you guys!**_

XI.

Child Services finds Charlie's aunt in Washington state, and she flies down to take custody of him. Jane waits with the boy until then.

Meanwhile Teresa, Van Pelt and Cho dissect the Cooper family's lives. Everything is laid bare to them, their financial records, their habits, their medical histories. Nothing is a secret.

Teresa learns that Mrs. Cooper probably drinks too much (the ME finds early stage liver damage and there is an unusually well stocked liquor cabinet in the kitchen). Dr. Cooper pays for a "massage" every week at a place where they find out massages come with happy endings. All of this tells them nothing. She's yet to find a case where the victim has no embarrassing secrets or little white lies. None of it reveals the killer.

They get a forensic accountant to help sort through the financials. Dealing with rich people is always difficult; money is hidden or shifted into complex accounts.

Teresa sits in her office long after dark and tries to ignore the tequila in her bottom drawer.

She wonders sometimes what the police would find if she were killed. It's not like she's doodled Mrs. Jane into a notebook, but would they notice that she's fallen for him over the years? His favorite tea is in her cabinet. She keeps a spare toothbrush at her place just in case. He's sacked out on her couch enough times that it smells like him a little.

She rubs at the headache forming between her eyes. So her biggest, deepest, darkest secret would be that she fell in love with Patrick Jane. It's kind of lame, when she thinks about it. Half the office thinks they're sleeping together already, that they have been for years.

Her door opens and Jane enters, looking ragged around the edges.

"Charlie's aunt picked him up," he says, flopping onto his back on her couch.

Teresa opens her desk drawer and takes out some antacids. She chews two and then tosses him the bottle. All she's eaten all day is greasy pizza chased by black coffee. She's not sure Jane's fared much better.

"What time is it?" she asks.

"Eleven forty-five," he replies, crunching the tablets.

The bullpen is silent. She sighs and stretches. She walks over the couch and lies down on top of him, resting her head on his chest. He wraps his arms around her and they both close their eyes.

Her door swings open. Neither of them have the energy to jump up guiltily.

Cho pokes his head inside and seems completely unfazed by the sight of the two of them cuddling. "I'm going to try and catch a few hours of sleep," he says. "I'll be back by six."

"Thought you already left," she mutters. "See you tomorrow."

Cho looks at his watch. "Technically later today," he replies, and then leaves.

Teresa closes her eyes again. "Does everyone think we're sleeping together?" she asks.

Jane rubs her back. "I wrote it on the men's room wall," he says.

Somehow they both drift off, just for a little while.

XXX

Grace makes it in by six-thirty the next morning, clutching a venti double shot espresso and trying desperately not to think about the little boy who saw his parents gunned down. When she enters the bullpen her heart skips a beat in surprise.

Rigsby is slow getting up from his chair, wincing in pain a little, but he manages. She sets the coffee down, beaming, and moves to give him a friendly hug.

"You're back!" she says happily into his chest.

"Sort of," he replies. "I'm on desk duty for this case. Thought you guys could use the help."

"We were fine without you," Cho says flatly, but by now they can distinguish between his "kidding" deadpan and his "serious" deadpan. He slaps Rigsby's back. "Good to have you back, man."

Rigsby settles carefully into his chair. "So did I miss anything important?" he asks.

"Jane and the Boss are sleeping together," Cho says.

Both Rigsby and Grace swivel to look at him in surprise.

"No way," says Rigsby.

"Way," says Cho. "I walked in on them cuddling on the couch last night."

Rigsby's lip curls. "Gross."

"That doesn't mean they're sleeping together," Grace says. "It's been a tough case. Besides, the Boss is dating some new guy. We went shopping for clothes and everything…" Her voice trails off as realization sets in. "I helped her buy underwear," she says a little sickly.

All three of them are uncomfortably silent for a minute. Then Cho says, "Going to pretend I don't know about this."

"Me too." Rigsby looks relieved, reaches for his Big Gulp.

Grace says, "I helped her buy underwear…"

XXX

They work the case and spend most of the day interviewing Dr. Cooper's co-workers and family members. There are no leads. Every time Teresa closes her eyes, she sees Charlie's terrified expression, his fist tight around his toy polar bear.

She goes home only to shower and change. Every time she passes Jane in the bullpen she resists the urge to hug him, to bury his face against his chest and smell his smell.

She is glad that Rigsby is back, but feels a twinge of guilt whenever she sees him. He winces when he moves, favors his abdomen. She is faced constantly with the reminder of what she saw in that basement.

Another day rolls by. She realizes it's four a.m. and they still haven't found a single clue as to the horrific homicide, haven't found anything to get justice for Charlie.

She can't stand it anymore; her nerves are frayed and she's functioning on so little sleep she's nearly catatonic. She goes looking for Jane.

There is a smaller men's room downstairs that contains a shower and a single toilet. She thinks he goes there to clean up sometimes. She presses her ear against the door and hears water running.

"Jane," she calls through the door.

He says something like "Mmm?" in answer.

She pushes open the door. He's standing in front of the sink with his shirt and vest off. His face is half covered in shaving foam and he's holding a razor. The water in the sink is steaming.

She takes in his bare chest, the muscles of his arms, the steam rising in wisps around his half naked body. Her mouth goes dry.

"Lisbon?" he asks, his eyes are just a tiny bit too wide.

She locks the door with a click. She crosses the tiny room in two strides and has her arms around his neck in a heartbeat. He drops the razor. She kisses him, ignoring the taste of shaving cream that gets in her mouth. She doesn't mind the soapy bitterness. He wraps his arms around her waist and returns her kiss with equal fervor. She sucks his tongue, and he groans against her lips. He is hard against her stomach.

Jane reaches down and grasps her shirt, tearing it open. Buttons skitter across the floor. He has her bra undone next, flings it to the side.

He grabs her thighs and lifts her, backing her into the wall. He takes a nipple into his mouth roughly. She squeezes her eyes shut as his teeth close around the peak. He's rough and every little nip, every rasp of his beard against her skin sends a frisson of pleasure to her core. His beard is scratching her skin and the shaving soap stings against the abrasions.

She runs her fingers through his hair, pulling a little. She wants him inside her now with such an urgency that she's shaking with it. She fumbles with his belt; it isn't working at this angle. He lets her slip to the floor and unbuttons her slacks, dragging them down her legs with her panties in one urgent sweep. She lifts her feet, balancing her arms on his shoulders so she can step out of them.

She expects him to stand, but instead he presses a hot, urgent kiss against her sex, parting her with his tongue. She hisses in pleasure, her head falling back against the tiled wall. He strokes her roughly with the rasp of her tongue, too harsh to be entirely pleasurable. She falls apart against his mouth, making an embarrassing keening wail.

He stands again, undoes his belt, and opens his slacks. She helps his push his pants and underwear past his hips, grasps him tightly in her hand. He jerks against her, then lifts her against the wall again, pins her there with his body, and slides inside of her with one savage thrust.

She locks her legs around his waist, sobbing a little every time he rocks into her. Their pace is brutal. She thinks she'll die if he slows down, even a bit. Her hands are squeezing his bare arms; her nails dig into his skin.

He kisses her, roughly, messily, in time with his movements. She shatters again, her body so keyed up that the orgasm is fast and hard and over just too soon. She feels him coming as she clenches around him, hears him swearing savagely against her as he thrusts one last time.

They sink the floor in a shaky tangle of limbs.

Her throat feels dry and achy, like she's just run a mile.

He presses his lips to her neck tenderly.

Without meaning to, she bursts into tears.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

XII.

The last little aftershocks of pleasure are still leaving his body as he sinks the ground, his arms still supporting Lisbon. The last teasing little frissons of pleasure fade as she begins sob.

He's barely able of forming thoughts, let alone words, so he holds her tightly, mind spinning. He's terrified that he lets her go she'll run and be lost to him forever. Each hiccupping sob echoes loudly in the small room. The smell of sex permeates the air. He kisses her neck, her cheek, and hopes frantically that he hasn't just destroyed any hope he has of being with her.

She can't possibly know what this culmination of all their play has meant to him. If he could have picked the time and place, it wouldn't have been against a wall in the middle of gut-wrenching murder case. Regardless of the setting, regardless of how frantic and hurried it had been, he had been lost in a sea of Lisbon. The smell of her hair brushing his cheek, the softness of her skin, every little moan and whimper pitched to her voice. He had been surrounded by _her_ warmth, _her_ touch, _her _scent. And then when he was inside her…anchored by her lips and her legs he had been whole again for a perfect moment in time; he had been safe and forgiven and loved.

_Please_, he thinks, feeling her tears on his shoulder, _please don't let me lose this again_.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."

He strokes her hair. "I have to say, I'm flattered that I moved you to tears…" The humor is hollow in his voice.

"Jane," she says, pressing her face into the crook of his neck.

"It's okay," he tells her.

"It shouldn't have been like that," she says hoarsely. "I shouldn't have…I took advantage of you."

He pulls away from her and gives her his crooked grin. "It's okay, Teresa. It really is."

She sniffs, runs her hands along his arms. "Can you forgive me for making a mess of this?" she asks.

He feels something deep inside his chest cracking apart, like ice floes drifting away from each other on an endless, black sea. "Of course," he says.

He helps her up; the floor is uncomfortable for both of them. She's completely naked and in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom she looks small and pale and vulnerable. He can see where his whiskers left pink scratches on her breasts, her thighs and her neck. She moves her arms in front of her self-consciously, which is ridiculous, because she's so beautiful to him.

He walks over to the small shower stall and turns on the water. He lets it get hot, then strips the rest of the way out of his pants and takes her hand. He leads her under the water and rinses their combined sweat from their bodies. He has soap and shampoo in his shaving kit, and he reaches over to the sink for it.

He washes her hair slowly and carefully, luxuriating in the feel of it heavy and silky between his fingers. He washes her body gently, intimately, but not provocatively. She returns the favor, her small hands firm and capable and she runs the soap over his skin. He's hard again, but they both ignore it. She reaches for his razor and carefully finishes shaving where he left off. He holds still and lets her glide the blade across his face. When she's done she kisses his mouth, softly but deeply, every press of her lips an apology.

There is only one towel. He dries her first before using it himself.

"There's another shirt in my office," she says. "Bottom drawer of my filing cabinet." She looks at her blouse which is destroyed.

"I'll get it," he says, and dresses. When he leaves the room she's pulling on her slacks.

XXX

Jane is possessed by the urge to close the case. Lisbon is sequestered in her office with the special master assigned to comb through Dr. Cooper's patient records. He knows they won't find anything. He wants to barge and say "We really need to talk about the sex we had in the bathroom because you might be sorry, but I want to jump for joy," but he thinks she might shoot him.

Instead he takes his ire out on Grace.

"I have an idea," he tells her.

She looks up warily from her computer. She clearly uncomfortable so he knows she's figured out he's the man Lisbon is dating. That means she's also figured out she helped Lisbon pick out lingerie for him.

"By the way," he says as if he was talking about the weather, "royal blue lace. Very nice."

Her look of mortification is priceless. He files it away in his memory palace for when he's having a bad day.

"So," he continues, not missing a beat, "are you driving or am I?"

She grabs the keys; anything to keep the subject off Lisbon's panties.

She follows his directions to a trendy, pricey spa. He manipulates the icy blonde behind the front desk with a few well-placed lies, suggestions really, about his bank account and current relationship status with Grace. Before she can think to question it, the two of them are wrapped in soft white robes and ushered back to the 'serenity' room.

Sipping cool, cucumber-infused water he finds exactly who he's looking for.

The woman in question sits across from them, draped across a white lounge chair. She has a glass of champagne on the table next to her and a ring on her finger that glitters obscenely. He knows this type of woman well; she used to be his bread and butter. She's middle aged, rich, bored out of her mind.

It isn't the cold glint in her eye that tells him she's the killer. It isn't her tight, almost predatory smile either. Now that she's noticed him across the room she's sizing him up like he might just be her next meal.

No, it's her robe and her eyelids that interest him. The robe is wrapped tightly up around her neck. Her left eyelid droops, just a little.

_Bingo_.

Speaking in low tones to Grace, who is clearly more and more uncomfortable at the thought of sitting next to him in nothing but a robe, he gestures at the woman with his glass.

"She," he whispers, "is our killer."

Grace stares at him incredulously. "You don't even know who she is," she hisses.

He sips his water; it's surprisingly refreshing. "I don't need to," he replies. "I can see the dear Dr. Cooper's handiwork all over her." He sighs, sets his glass down and says, "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

XXX

Teresa isn't listening to the special master. He hasn't found anything of value anyway. She's rubbing idly at a spot on her shoulder where's Jane's whisker burn is concealed beneath her tee-shirt.

She's imagined their first time together on plenty of lonely nights. It's never involved the CBI men's room. She thinks about how they could have moved slowly into this, discovered if this relationship would even work while treading carefully; instead she ruined it all with a quick fuck against a wall.

She can't go back now. No, Jane is like heroin, before long she's going to be itching for more. She can already feel the compulsion to find him, touch him again. It's almost ridiculous. She hasn't been this needy since she was a teenager, first discovering the forbidden wonders of sex.

Nothing with him can be easy or simple. The slow burn of lust she's feeling now is a direct foil to the explosion of terror she felt when she fired that gun at Jane. The blinding fear that she'd just murdered the man she loved was no less intense than the release she found with him hours ago. It's not fair that when she's with him she has to feel so _much_.

"I think we've covered everything," she says a little sharply.

The man summarizing his findings in the patient files looks surprised at being interrupted. She doesn't even give him an explanation. She stands up, pulls on her jacket and says, "Call me if you find anything."

"We're not…we're not done here?" At the last second he turns it into a question.

"We are for today," she says.

She needs to leave now and find Jane. She needs to tell him that she's flying the white flag. She'll give him the relationship he wants, even if it breaks her heart. She'll burn up in the flames with him.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

XIII.

Teresa just enters the bullpen when Rigsby slams his phone into the cradle and says, "We've got a problem."

She knows it's Jane.

"Shit," she mutters.

"There's some disturbance at a spa called Lotus. Jane and Grace are involved." Rigsby looks worried.

Teresa's hand reflexively brushes the butt of her gun. "You stay here." She looks at Cho who is already standing. "Cho, with me. I'll drive."

Rigsby looks frustrated and a little helpless as they stride for the elevator. His hand goes to his abdomen as if a ghost of pain has just flashed through him.

As they ride down to the parking garage in tense silence, Teresa prays that Jane hasn't gotten himself killed just as she's ready to admit she loves him.

"He'll be okay," Cho says calmly.

She takes a deep breath. "He better be."

"It's good," he says, "what you guys are doing."

She eyes him. "Sex?"

She swears he flinches, just a little. "No," he says evenly, "opening up to each other. It's about time you both admitted you needed each other."

She scowls at him.

Cho is blasé. "Everyone needs love, Boss, even when it hurts."

XXX

The spa is in chaos. The receptionist, a young blonde woman, is hysterical as she crouches behind the front desk.

"She's got him," she snivels. "She's got him with a knife!"

Teresa feels her stomach drop. "Which way?" she demands.

The receptionist sobs. Teresa nudges her roughly with her boot. "Which way?" She demands a little more fiercely.

The other woman points down a hall, and she and Cho take off, guns drawn.

The find the room easily enough; the sound of a woman shrieking, occasionally interrupted by Jane's smooth voice, echoes from the last room to the left.

Teresa bursts through the door, gun drawn and aimed ahead of her. She takes in the scene in a fraction of a second; Grace is on the floor, bleeding from the head. A shattered pitcher lays next to her. At the far end of the room a woman has one arm around Jane's shoulders, the other presses a knife to his throat. She is shorter than he is, so he's bent backward at an awkward angle. He's talking to the woman, trying to calm her down.

"He ruined my life!" the woman screams, her voice ragged with hysteria. "He ruined me!"

"All of this can be fixed, Caroline," Jane says calmly. "You know you're a beautiful woman."

"_He ruined me!_" she screams, her voice now cracking. Teresa sees the knife press deeper into Jane's neck.

Teresa's fingers feel numb and her legs tingle. She thinks she can't breathe. Her gun hand trembles, and darkness begins to close in around the edges of her vision.

The knife is pressed to the white skin of Jane's neck.

She smells blood and musty basement. She feels nothing but terror as Jane begs her to kill him. The air leaves her lungs when he tells her "_I love you. It's okay. It's time."_

She cannot move. She is rigid with panic. Her eyes focus on the knife…the knife.

The blade is not shiny and smooth, but rather black and textured. The woman's clutches a pink handle. Pink?

Teresa holsters the gun.

"Drop it now," she orders.

"He ruined me!" the woman sobs.

Teresa strides over to her, grabs the wrist holding the nail file, and roughly yanks it away from Jane's neck. She wrenches it behind the woman's back cruelly; the assailant howls in pain. Teresa is sure she's broken her wrist. She cuffs her. The file falls to the floor.

Cho has holstered his weapon. "Seriously, man? A nail file."

Jane rubs his neck, his fingers tracing the angry pink scar left by Red John. "It was sharp," he says defensively. "Besides, she knocked Grace out with that pitcher."

Grace is sitting up now, her hand clutching her bloody temple. She groans in pain.

"Get this woman back to the station," Teresa snaps at Cho. She pulls out her phone and calls for an ambulance for Grace.

They wait until the paramedics take Grace to have her head checked, but they assure Teresa it's likely a mild concussion.

"That bitch was faster than you'd think," Grace seethes as she settles back into the gurney.

"Call Rigsby," Teresa tells her. "He's worried."

The paramedics take Grace away and Teresa doesn't go with Cho and the suspect. She doesn't look for Jane. She walks alone outside, finds a quiet spot behind the spa, and begins retching violently into the grass.

When she's done she sinks to her knees and starts sobbing uncontrollably.

A hand touches her back. She jerks up, hand touching her gun.

"Hey!" Jane says. "Hey, it's me."

He's changed out of his spa robe and back into his usual suit.

She wipes her eyes and lets out a jagged breath. He pulls her to her feet and wraps his arms around her.

It's hot out, but she's shaking, her teeth chattering. His suit jacket is rough on her cheek.

"I was back in that basement," she tells him. "He was holding a knife to your throat again."

He rubs her back. "It's over. I'm fine."

She swallows a sob. "But you might not be next time," she says.

"You might not either," he says. "We chose to take those risks."

She pulls away, the trembling subsiding now. She wipes at her eyes angrily. "You asked me to kill you, Jane. Do you remember that? Asking me to shoot you?"

He looks sick. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away, his jaw tense. "I thought I was going to die anyway, Teresa. I wanted to at least take him with me."

"But did I have to be the one to do it?" she demands, her voice high and enraged. "Jesus! Do you know what that's like? The man you've been in love with for years asking you to _fucking shoot him_?"

He turns back to her sharply.

"I can't ever forgive you for doing that to me," she says.

"I don't expect you to," he says slowly.

She lets out a breath and heads for the car. He follows. He's silent for the ride back to headquarters.

XXX

It's a typical Jane-figures-it-out-first case. He saw a business card for the spa in the dead doctor's kitchen. Mrs. Cooper clearly hadn't had a manicure or any kind of facial treatment; she'd worn no makeup even.

Jane had been searching for clues when he'd dragged Grace to the spa, but once he'd seen Caroline bundled in her robe with her drooping eyelid, he knew. The robe was wrapped tight to conceal a horrible rash. The eyelid wasn't a birth defect—both were the result of botched Botox treatment.

Good Dr. Cooper had been subsidizing his income doing off-the-record Botox injections at the spa. To avoid getting caught he'd purchased the paralytic illegally in Mexico. A batch had been contaminated, causing Caroline's side effects.

Unstable as she was vain, Caroline had felt that Dr. Cooper had turned her into some sort of monster. She'd killed him and his wife in a rage over her damaged appearance.

The irony was the side effects weren't permanent. Prison was.

Teresa watches as Jane and Cho coax the woman into confessing. It is all on tape. Another case closed. They caught the bad guy for Charlie.

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

She returns to her office, letting the others finish processing their perp. She pulls the tequila out of the bottom drawer and takes a swig.

She sits in silence for a while. The only light is from her small desk lamp. Her eyes feel swollen and gritty.

Her office door swings open.

Jane stands illuminated by the hall light like some blonde, precocious angel. "Lisbon," he says. "We need to talk.


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

XIV.

"I'm too tired to talk," Teresa says, and she means it. She has a migraine building behind her eyes and her throat is raw from throwing up earlier.

"Let me take you home, then," he offers.

She sighs and stands. He hands her her jacket.

She says nothing as he drives her back to his place. She says nothing when he opens the apartment door and ushers her in. She brushes her teeth with his spare toothbrush. She pulls on one of his clean tee-shirts and climbs into bed.

She feels the mattress dip next to her and Jane comes to bed. He lies still beside her. She rolls over and rests her head on his chest, throws her leg over his thigh. She can feel some of the tension leave his body. He wraps his arms around her tightly.

She closes her eyes to sleep, just begins to drift off, when she feels the slight tremble in his chest.

Teresa pushes up on one arm. Jane's eyes are squeezed closed, but she sees the tears trickle out from beneath his lids.

Guilt kicks her hard in the stomach. She leans over and kisses his lips softly. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"For what?" he asks. His voice is even and controlled.

"For making you cry," she says.

"I made me cry," he admits. "I broke your heart, Teresa. I can't imagine what it was like to pull that trigger because I asked you to. I can't imagine how much that hurt you."

She closes her eyes now.

His hand brushes a strand of hair from her face. "I think I knew, honestly. I knew how much I was hurting you. I just buried it with all the other guilt I've been carrying around. I knew you loved me, Teresa. I didn't know you were in love with me. I thought I was the only one who felt this way."

She opens her eyes. His are large and blue and filled with sadness.

"I think I was in love with you since that stupid frog," she says. "I didn't realize it until I almost lost you when you shot Timothy Carter. I thought I was safe, that I wouldn't have to act on it because you were unavailable."

His hand strokes her neck. "And then Red John was dead and I acted like you should just come and live here because I was ready."

She leans into his touch. "I thought I'd never have to deal with how much I really love you, Jane. It's hard to care about someone that much, especially when you know they might hurt you. I don't think I've ever made myself vulnerable to anyone." She thinks about her father and realizes that Patrick is the first man she's ever really loved.

"I understand that," he says. "I didn't think I could survive being in love again after Angela."

"And now?" Unconsciously she's pulled herself closer to him, their lips only millimeters apart.

"Now I won't survive if you don't love me," he says. "I know you're scared, but I need you, Teresa." He kisses her softly. "Not the way I needed you before, to keep me sane. I need to you help be a full man again, to live a real life. I've been waiting for Red John to die, but I've been waiting for you too."

She kisses him, and he strokes her back tenderly. It's the sort of kiss she's always imagined from Patrick Jane. It is filled with light and magic. It is fun and tender and sweet.

After a bit she rests her head on his shoulder again. "We're both pretty damaged," she says.

"Yup," he agrees.

"I have confession to make," she says. "I didn't say anything because I knew it would upset you."

He shifts so they are lying side by side. She looks him in the eyes and says, "I didn't just shoot you because you asked or because I was confused and on drugs. I felt Angela standing there with me, guiding my hand. I knew she wouldn't let me hurt you."

A shadow of sorrow passes over his face. "You know I don't believe in that stuff," he says quietly.

She feels ashamed. "I know."

"But if she was going to visit anyone," he continues, "It would be you, I think."

He takes her hand and squeezes it.

"Just in case though," he adds. "No more shooting me okay?"

She smiles, although it's a bit watery. "Unless you're really asking for it."

He pulls her into his arms. They are both exhausted, emotionally and physically.

"I love you Teresa Lisbon," he says. "I'll always love you. You've been my north star for ten years, my compass rose. Please stay with me."

She fists her hands in his tee shirt. "I love you too, Patrick. I'm not going anywhere."

**A/N: Epilogue will be posted tomorrow. Sorry if the end was sappy or rushed!**


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Do I Know You From Somewhere

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not earning a profit from this.

Summary: Set post-Red John. "They had been holding their breath, waiting for this moment to move on with their lives."

Spoilers: 4 x 24

Author's Note: Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. Rated M for violence, language and adult situations. I believe this is going to be a fairly large (for me) multi-chapter piece.

Epilogue

Jane leans forward and kisses Lisbon, joy filling his heart. He intends to pull her into his arms again, to rest with her for a while, but she kisses him back, deep and cherry-sweet. Her mouth is wicked. Her hands aren't idle either. She's slipped them beneath his shirt to trail along the skin of his stomach.

"I thought you were exhausted," he murmurs against her mouth.

She hooks a leg over his hip and pulls him down on top of her. "I can rally," she says, and she bites his ear.

He pulls his shirt over his head and throws it over his shoulder. Her shirt follows, and she shimmies out of her panties as well. Her fingers eagerly push his shorts over his hips, her toes pushing them down his legs the rest of the way. He is nestled against her sex, hot and wet against his skin. He rubs his length along her, feeling her shiver against him.

He spends quality time kissing Lisbon, learning all kinds of wonderful things about her. He learns that her velvety little earlobes are particularly sensitive. When he draws one into the heat of his mouth she shudders against him and her toes curl and uncurl against the back of his calf.

He learns that he can make her come just by dragging his teeth carefully over her nipples. He learns that she likes a light touch between her legs, just a whisper of sensation. He learns she has no patience, really.

Still quivering from her climax she growls at him, "Patrick, I want you inside of me."

"Not yet," he mumbles against her hip. He drags his lips to her navel.

She hooks her legs over his hips and flips him onto his back with astonishing ease. Straddling him she pushes her dark hair from her face and lets out a huff.

"Really, Teresa," he scolds. "I was just getting started."

She grins at him. "So am I." She positions herself over him, ready to take him into her body. He grits his teeth at the razor sharp flash of pleasure that cuts across him. As he feels her heat start to envelop him, his mind clicks back into gear and he stops her, hands on her hips.

"Wait," he pants. "Are you on the pill?"

She bites her lip and groans. "No. I'm assuming you don't have any…?"

"No," he confirms. He hasn't bought condoms in nearly eighteen years. He hasn't even thought about it.

Neither of them were thinking clearly the first time. Then grief and desire clouded his mind so everything was a red haze.

She looks at him seriously, green eyes earnest. "I don't care if you don't. I mean that. Whatever happens…it would make me happy."

An image of a dark haired, precocious child flashes through his mind and warmth settles into his chest. "It would make me happy, too," he says.

She closes her eyes and slides down on top of him, her face taught with pleasure. He is overwhelmed by the sensation of her body possessing his and of the feeling of fullness in his heart. She leans down so she can kiss him again and he slides his fingers into her hair.

He is home.

XXX

Jane sighs in irritation. She's late again. She only does this to annoy him, because he kept her waiting so often over the years. He leans back against the Citroen and lets his mind wander, listening to a blues band playing somewhere across the park.

Finally she pulls up and slides out the car. She's wearing dark skinny jeans and an emerald green sweater. He thinks that the jeans do marvelous things to her backside, and also that they'll be a pain to get off of her later.

Her smile is impish and instantly he forgives her.

"Sorry," Teresa says. "Paperwork."

"Uh-huh." He rolls his eyes and takes her hand. They walk into the park where the blues festival is being held. He has a blanket rolled up under one arm. "You're lucky I love you, Teresa," he teases.

"Right, I'm the lucky one," she says dryly. She points to a spot in the grass. "Let's sit over there, Patrick."

He's mostly Patrick now. She calls him Jane at work and very rarely in bed, which he finds a little thrilling.

He rolls out the blanket and they sit down; she leans against him and he wraps an arm around her shoulders. He is still in awe at how easy it is to touch her, even months after they began to unofficially date. He sometimes wonders at being allowed all these caresses, all these kisses. She seems to agree that she belongs to him, and that's a marvel.

Piece by piece she's moved in with him. Now her place is more or less empty and when the lease runs out she's letting it go. He's discovered that they both do fit in that bathtub, that she hogs the bed, that she can tell when he's feeling melancholy before he even realizes it. She doesn't like nature programs or microwave popcorn or (usually) morning sex. She is a fan of sitcoms, sleeping late on the weekends, and (thanks be to pick-a-deity) oral sex.

They keep their relationship quiet at work, although he knows it's no secret. They are the team who found Red John; she's the cop who killed him. Jane is pretty sure they could go at it in front of reception and no one would say a word.

Now when the cases are hard or the days are long or something reminds him of his wife and child, he doesn't retreat to the attic anymore. He doesn't have to. He is no longer living half a life.

Teresa rests her head on his shoulder.

He slides his hand to her stomach because he knows, even before she does.

They are both home.

**A/N: I hope you guys liked it. As always, reviews are appreciated! I've got a few ideas for new stories rattling around in my head, and I'm debating a sequel for this one.**


End file.
